


Reflection

by Tinhatflash53



Series: The Revelation Series [2]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: All the Countries | Nations (Hetalia), Alternate History, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Dark, F/M, Implied Necrophilia, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Kaiserreich, M/M, Manga & Anime, Violence, nations revealed
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-10
Updated: 2021-02-17
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:34:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 31
Words: 47,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23097934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tinhatflash53/pseuds/Tinhatflash53
Summary: Part 2 of the Revelation Series - coming soon!After the harrowing experiences with the Book of Stories two years ago, the nations of the world have been living in relative harmony. Soon, however, the very foundations of human civilization will be rocked by a world-changing event, and both humanity and the nations are about to discover the answer to the fundamental question:They are not alone.W̸͓͝͠o̶̱̠̓͆́r̴͙̘͕̀l̴̳̉̈d̵͙́̃̑s̸͉͆ ̸̜̥͂͂ẅ̵̡̺̻̉ĭ̴̼͠l̴̯̺̬̊͠l̵̼̰̝̈́́̚ ̸̬̉̾͜l̷̡̟̑î̶͖̲̩v̸͕͇͛e̴͈͖͐̒,̴̯͎̦͑̈́̈ ̵̠̉͐w̸̡̗̒o̸̪̲̣͊̑r̶̮̮͚͑͑͑l̴̡̯̝̄̑̾d̶̼̾̐̐s̷̘͊͘ ̷͍̖̞̒w̷͔̤͙͆ī̴̝l̷̘̟̭̊l̷͙̓ ̵͈̓͘ḋ̸̰̻̄̇í̸̦̊ĕ̷͎̱͑,̷̮̈̓͘ ̴͕̖̊a̷̞̗̜̍n̴͚̱͗͠d̶̡͕̦̈́̈́͘ ̶̫͙̳̄̓n̸̖̆̆ö̵̟́͆t̵̻̝͛̂ḩ̸̻͇͑̍i̸̢͙̋̋n̴̨̥̮̋g̵͓͙̈́̃̍ ̶͕̅͘w̶̤̹̚i̸̟̅l̴̳̬͊l̵̺̱̃ ̵̥̝̾ē̷͙͇̌͜v̴̢̦͑̐̀ę̸̠͊͐̈́r̵͎̰͋̏ͅ ̴̝͛̔b̶̨̺̝̈ĕ̴̡̯̌͌ ̴̘̻̀̿͝t̷̨͈̏h̶̼̀e̶̳̔̂͠ ̷̤͚͙̂̃ș̶̪̔̈́͝a̴̧̾m̵̥͍̘̂͒͘ḛ̶͍̓͌̉.̴̙̒ ̶̫̹͂͑̈́L̷͖͆̍o̴̦̐̌o̸̢̟̟͛̌̏k̸͖̱̳̓̊ ̵͎̞͐͘͠o̴̮͊̏u̷̢̘͔̔͝t̴̟̐͠,̷̥̯͉̈́͘ ̴͚͚͛Ȇ̴̡̛̟̊a̵̬̣̅r̶̘͈͛̇ṭ̶̼͇̓̔̓h̶̆̍ͅ-̶̻̓̒1̷̳͂̃2̸̧̫͂4̶̺͈̖̀.̷͙̟͝ ̵̦̇͐̍Ä̷̱͈ͅ ̴̥̣͚͐͝Ć̷̞͜r̶̢̃͊͘ï̷͖̜̹̈́̓s̵͚̟̓͒͝i̷̫̤̤͠s̸̛̹͊͛ ̶̜̓͛̆i̴̫̮͗́s̵̫̣̆ ̶͖͋͗c̷̤̈́o̶͑̅̌͜m̸̺̭̈́̍i̵̗̙̓ṋ̶͝͝g̶̪͑̒͐͜͜ ̶͎̫͠͝ṫ̴̢̺̙͆o̴̘̗͆̓ ̸̠̼̪͐͌̕y̸̨̪̱͒o̴͎͖̮̎û̸̡̝̇ͅr̶̩̳͌́ ̸̢̹͈̿͝ẅ̴̼́̆ǒ̵͕̣̾̐ř̸̻̣͐ļ̸͕́d̴͇͛.̸̧̮̇̿̑
Relationships: Austria/Hungary (Hetalia), Canada/Prussia (Hetalia), England/France (Hetalia), Germany/North Italy (Hetalia), OC/OC, South Italy/Spain (Hetalia)
Series: The Revelation Series [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1562536
Comments: 95
Kudos: 46





	1. Teaser

_It is a good life we lead, brother. May it never change!_

_And may it never change us!_

-Federico and Ezio Auditore, _Assassin's Creed II_


	2. Prologue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Ye tyrants quake, your day is over"  
>  -Candace Fleming

Muhammad dreamed of fire. He dreamed of a world tearing itself apart, and from the ashes, his nation would rise above all others, eradicating them. The new caliphate would cover the globe, and Western Civilization would be crushed. They laughed at him. They scorned him. Now they would burn. Muhammad regarded the shivering filth in front of him, a lowly American man, with access to the files of the CIA. “Do you understand what needs to be done?” he asked the man.

The CIA agent spat in Muhammad’s face, growling “Go fuck yourself!”

Muhammad calmly wiped the bloody spittle from his cheek, sneering down at the beaten man. “I thought not,” he said calmly, “If nothing else, I admire the tenacity of you American infidels. However, I feel I have something in my possession that will… persuade you more effectively.” Muhammad turned to his attendant, “Fetch the Ember for me, quickly!”

The attendant scampered off, then returned a few minutes later with a small black box, the crack of which glowed with an unearthly light. Muhammad grinned. “Perfect,” he purred, taking the box gingerly in his hands, then he turned to the CIA agent. “So, Agent Burr, do you know what is in this box?” Muhammad asked the man, savoring his victory soon to be.

The agent eyed the box warily. “Can’t say I do,” he said carefully.

“This,” Muhammad said, “Is an Ember of the Flame of Arabia. One of the most powerful forces to ever exist in this world. And an essential tool for a great caliphate such as myself! Now behold! The power of the Flame!”

Muhammad opened the box, holding it to the agent’s eyes, and the man screamed as his retinas burned. He shook and shivered, crying out for mercy, but Muhammad had none. He willed the Ember to do his bidding, and a tendril of heat extended from the box and towards the agent, disappearing into the man’s forehead. He screamed as it altered his mind, emptying his thoughts and replacing them with orders and programming. Then he suddenly went slack, his body relaxing. Muhammad watched carefully, leaning forward with interest. “So, Agent Burr,” Muhammad asked, “Do you understand what needs to be done?”

“I understand,” he said emotionlessly, “The Prophet shall be avenged.”

“Good,” Muhammad said, “What else?”

“The world shall burn, and from its ashes, the caliphate will rise like a mighty phoenix,” the man said, still emotionless.

“Good. You are ready. Return to the home of the demons, and bring them down,” Muhammad told him as the man was unchained, overjoyed that his plan had succeeded, “If you are discovered, you know what to do.” The man nodded, then left Muhammad’s hideout.

Muhammad closed the box, handing it back to his servant, then reclined in front of a map of the world, grinning with grotesque glee as he stabbed a knife through the United States. Then he stabbed Great Britain. Then Russia. Then China. Then Germany. Then Canada. Then France. Then Australia. Then Israel. Finally, he stabbed his knife into Rome, not only the heart of Western Civilization, but also the home of the Vatican City, and the Catholic Church. He would tear down every institution that the West held dear, especially the wretched fools who refused to accept the word of the Prophet. And of course, those that preached coexistence would be eradicated, for they did not  _ truly _ understand the Word. They were the worst scum of them all, those pretender-Muslims, and they would be burned in holy fire. Toleration would not be tolerated, not in the True Caliphate. But all these nations were strong, and he was, as much as he hated to admit it, weak.

There was an ancient law among their kind, however. One that none had dared to ever break; that they were to remain secret. Safe. Secure. Mysterious. If they were revealed now, it would cause mass panic and hysteria. And that was exactly what Muhammed wanted. Soon, his agents would expose the Great Secret, and the people of those once-great Western nations would turn on the countries that they held so dear, like humanity so often did when it did not understand. From the chaos of this world, his caliphate would rise and overcome whatever broken bastions remained. He would baptize this wretched world in fire, and make it born anew. Crosses would be torn down, Stars of David defaced. Buddha would be killed, and the Hindu Scriptures would be burned. Hammers and Sickles would be broken, Stars and Stripes would come unraveled. Only the Islamic State would remain.

Muhammad, the Personification of ISIS, began to laugh. Those poor fools. They had no idea what was coming to them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, so I gave it a lot of thought, and I figured if I want to get this gargantuan project over with by the time I'm fifty, I'll need to run two of these parallel to each other. Rest assured, "Redemption" WILL STILL UPDATE. Alongside it, however, will come my new work, the sequel "Reflection"! There will be some light spoilers for the ending of Redemption, but nothing too earth-shattering. Read at your own risk, I guess, but I just need to get this done. Thanks for showing such interest in this, guys! You have no idea how much it means to me!


	3. The Prometheus Scenario

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The sky is falling! The sky is falling!"  
> -Chicken Little

Alexander Jones, the Personification of the Southern United States, sighed as he stepped inside the foyer of Unity Hill Manor, an exclave of the District of Columbia, USA. His home. Alexander had just returned from Washington, exhausted from having to deal with so many politicians, and was beginning to seriously consider an edit to the attendance schedule he’d set up with his brother. Really, it was his country above all, shouldn’t Alfred have more of the workload? There was only so much paperwork one could get done with only one arm available to him. “I’m home!” he called into the house, beginning to set down his briefcase in his study. Every now and again there was a state at Unity Hill, but they were never all truly together unless it was a holiday. Or a time of crisis. But, thankfully, there weren’t too many of those anymore. 

As Alexander put on his glasses to do his paperwork, he heard the telltale roar of a Rolls-Royce, and the low growl of tires crushing the red gravel road leading up to the manor house. Soon, Alan Jones, the Personification of the Great State of New York, raced into his office, looking panicked. That was bad. There were only three times in his entire life when New York looked panicked, the Market Crash, the 2008 Recession, and 9/11. “Alan, welcome home,” Alexander said tentatively, “What’s wrong?”

“Haven’t you seen the news!?” Alan demanded, his eyes wild with panic.

Alexander shook his head, “I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean.”

Alan ran a hand through his mousy brown hair, muttering, “Dear God,  _ they know! _ ”

Alexander stood up from his desk, putting down his glasses. “Alan, son, you’re scaring me,” he said, going to the distressed teen, “What’s wrong?”

“They know! They know about us!” Alan wailed, “About nations, about states, about the true history, everything! It’s the Prometheus Scenario!” 

Alexander stood in shock. The Prometheus Scenario was an international codeword, a codeword that spelled doom for everyone of Alexander’s kind. The Prometheus Scenario was an unthinkable: the public had been made aware of the existence of nations. “H-how?” Alexander asked New York, starting to regain his senses.

“Some CIA agent went off the deep end, released all the info to the Internet before offing himself!” Alan said frustratedly, “Damned bastard had been captured in the Middle East months ago, we think he was brainwashed. Oh, God, we’re all doomed!”

“Stop that!” Alexander told him, “Thinking like that will only make it true, boy! Go call the rest of the states home,  _ immediately! _ We’re keeping everyone at Unity Hill, strength in numbers. Your father and I will go sort this out at the conference once we have all the information. Now go, quicklike!”

Alan nodded grimly, then pulled out his cell and prepared to make forty-nine long-distance calls. Alexander began pacing the study, staring out at the peach trees. Nothing like this had ever happened before, not in six thousand years of human civilization had they discovered national personifications existed. It was the Ancient Law, and for some reason, whoever the poor bastard was the personified the ISIS terrorist group had decided to break it. Had greed truly gone so far? Alexander cursed aloud. This changed everything.

Alexander sat down in front of his computer, and tentatively searched Nations, with a capital “N”. What came up was millions of articles on the leak, including a source, and Alexander skimmed it, trying to discover the extent of the damage. It was no use. The report had pictures, human names, country names, even- oh God. Addresses. He needed to warn the others.

Quickly, he brought out the one way he could instantly contact every Nation on Earth without anyone intervening, a system they’d set up long ago: the Red Line Telegraph. The lines had been buried underneath every national capital and personification’s place of residence, spanning the entire globe, put in after the First World War. No one had ever had to use the Red Line before.

THE PROMETHEUS SCENARIO IS IN EFFECT -(STOP)-

THE HUMANS HAVE OUR ADDRESSES AND APPEARANCES -(STOP)- 

LEAK IS AUTHENTIC -(STOP)- 

TOO LATE FOR COVERUP -(STOP)-

WE ARE ALL IN DANGER -(STOP)-

EITHER STAY INSIDE AND PREPARE OR FLEE 

-SUSA

After sending the message, he waited for a response. The only one he got was from Clement Vargas, the Personification of Vatican City. 

THEN MAY GOD HELP US ALL

-VC

Alexander sighed. He was inclined to agree; it seemed only God could help them now.

* * *

Alfred was on his way to Washington when the leak hit. He had stopped at McDonald's for a quick bite for lunch, and was just about to fill in for Alexander, who’s shift had just ended, listening to the radio, when breaking news interrupted his Rock Hits of the 80s, 90s, and More.

_ “We interrupt your regularly scheduled program for this breaking news: According to a leak from the CIA, there are immortals among us!” _

Alfred choked on his burger. “Oh shit,” he said, his stomach dropping.

_ “Every inch of the leak has been inspected, and as far as our experts can tell, totally verified. Every piece of information you are about to hear  _ is _ true: Our nations, all nations across the world, are home to immortal personifications. According to the leak, wherever there is an established government and enough of a national identity, there will be a personification. These Nations, that’s with a capital ‘N’, have participated in dozens, if not hundreds of major historical events, and their existence has been covered up for six thousand years by every government that has ever been conceived by humanity. Even here, in the United States, we are home to hundreds of personifications, including Native American tribes, each of the fifty states, and two overarching Nations: The North and the South. It is unknown just how old these personifications are, or whether or not they can truly die at all. We do know that they carry with them what they refer to as ‘Human Names’, or occasionally ‘Personal Names’. Here in the US, our main personification is the North, the personification of the Grand Union, a man by the name of Alfred F Jones. His brother, Alexander S Jones, represents the South and the states that are either culturally aligned with the South or were part of the Confederacy during the Civil War.  _

_ “Furthermore, the fifty states are the children of these two brothers, which means that these Nations can reproduce, most probably asexually. With so many micronations, states, territories, countries, and unrecognized states, there is no definitive number of how many Nations there truly are in the world. The government has refused to comment on the leak, and reports say that the CIA agent that perpetrated the leak, Special Agent Arnold Burr, committed suicide before authorities could arrest him. We will be back with more on this story later.” _

“Oh fuck,” Alfred said, “Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck! I need to get to the White House!” Alfred turned on the police lights that his car had (there were certain perks to being a government official) and consequently floored it down I-66. 

It was half an hour later by the time Alfred made it to 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, and he was greeted by two Secret Service agents as his red convertible Mustang GT roared into the White House’s vehicle awning.

“Where is he?” Alfred demanded from the agents, barely having stepped out of his car and thrown on his bomber jacket.

“President O’Shea is in the Oval Office, sir,” one of the agents said, “The Pentagon is on high alert, and we’ve elevated government readiness to DEFCON 4.”

“Good, keep it at 4,” Alfred muttered as he marched into the White House, “And pray we don’t have to go higher. If this gets anymore out of hand than it already is, we can kiss law and order goodbye!”

Alfred reached the Oval Office in record time, nearly breaking down the door, and President O’Shea looked at him from behind his massive mahogany desk. “Hello, Alfred,” the president said resignedly, “I assume you’ve heard the news?”

Alfred snorted, “Of course I have! Who hasn’t, at this point? Bob, how did an ISIS sleeper agent just waltz into the CIA and release all this stuff!?”

O’Shea sighed, “I don’t know, Alfred! We did all the usual brainwashing tests, but Burr passed them with flying colors! ISIS has figured out some sort of new system, something even the Soviets didn’t think of, and we don’t know what it is yet or how to detect it, if it’s detectable at all. But what’s done is done. We can worry about ISIS later, what we need to do now is handle damage control.”

“If this gets anymore out of hand, the people will panic,” Alfred agreed, “Much like I am now, mind you, because  _ I’m  _ connected to their feelings! Empathy links really fucking suck sometimes, Bob!”

“I know Alfred, but I also know you have free will, and you can get a hold of yourself,” O’Shea said forcefully, standing up, “Now calm down and help me think of something!”

Alfred took a deep breath and paced around the Oval Office, hand on his chin ponderingly. Then, as he passed a portrait of TR, which O’Shea had had moved in upon his election, Alfred stopped. “You’re not going to like this,” he said, “Or more specifically,  _ no one _ is going to like this.”

“Hit me,” O’Shea said, fearing the worst.

Alfred turned and looked his boss dead in the eye. “We tell the truth,” he said, “The truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.”

“Alfred, no American politician has told the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth in two hundred and seventy years!” O’Shea protested, “That’s a streak I don’t really want to break, especially if it puts you and your family in danger!”

“We’re already in danger!” Alfred shot back, “And we both know that it’s too late for a coverup, if we try, we’ll look even worse! If we don’t want the country to come apart at the seams, we need to give them the low-down. All conflict is born from misunderstanding, and all misunderstanding is born from miscommunication. We need to make sure that the people understand, so they don’t panic and attack us! Otherwise, we’ll have another Salem on our hands!”

O’Shea cursed and slammed his fist on the desk. “You’re right, and I hate it when you’re right!” he growled, “I’ll… arrange a press conference. Try to be in something more presentable than a bomber jacket,  _ please _ .”

Alfred grinned humorlessly. “Sorry boss, only thing I brought,” he said dryly.

O’Shea shook his head fondly, “We’re about the same size, take one of my suits. I’ll go make the arrangements.” With that, President O’Shea left Alfred to his own devices, and for once, the Personification of the United States of America had no idea what he was supposed to say.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look at me writing an actually novel-formatted story!


	4. The Big Announcement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "There are no secrets that time does not reveal"  
> -Jean Racine

Arthur Kirkland, the Personification of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, growled as he received the news. “That stupid, upstart, brainless, no-good  _ idiot! _ ” he roared, cursing the name Alfred Jones with every breath he could, marching through London to the Parliament Building, “Of all the idiotic, braindead things that boy has ever done, this one takes the God damn cake!”

“Artie, there was no way Alfred could have known,” Dylan Kirkland, the Personification of Wales, sighed, walking alongside his younger brother, “He’s probably just as distressed as you, if not more. Hell, Alexander used the Red Line!”

“Yes, and even though the man only has one arm,  _ he  _ was the one who saw fit to  _ warn us  _ with a fucking  _ telegram! _ ” Arthur retorted, “I mean, for Christ’s Sake, it’s 2027! Who the hell uses the telegram anymore, Dylan!?”

“A call could have been intercepted,” Dylan reminded him, “This was Alexander’s best option.”

Arthur continued to grumble until the two Brits were inside Parliament, and they stood in front of the central table where the Speaker sat. “Sir and Mr. Kirkland, so lovely of you to join us,” the Speaker said haughtily, “We have received word from the Americans that the Prometheus Scenario is in effect, as I’m sure you two have as well.”

“Yes, Mr. Speaker,” Arthur said irritably, “Through the Red Line.”

The Speaker’s eyebrows raised, “The Red Line? That’s a first, to be sure. Have you heard the latest tidbit of news out of America, Sir Kirkland?”

Arthur’s eyes narrowed. “No, Mr. Speaker,” he said, his voice dangerously calm. The MPs shifted uncomfortably in their seats, knowing full well the consequences of making their personification angry.

“Yes, well, ahem, ah,” the Speaker started uncomfortably, “It seems that the American personification has decided to hold a press conference.”

“A press conference,” Arthur repeated, his eye starting to twitch, “For what purpose?”

“According to the American media, to tell ‘the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth’,” the Speaker said delicately.

“Mr. Speaker, with all due respect, the American media hasn’t told the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth in the past seventy years,” Arthur said, “What is Alfred up to!?”

“Arthur…” Dylan said carefully, “I think Alfred plans to come clean. Reveal the Great Secret.”

Arthur stared at him. His brain failed to conceive the possibility. Alfred was going to come out with it. He was going to give out information that had already been leaked by  _ his  _ top intelligence agency, because… because… why? Was he so selfish and short-sighted that he would reveal everything, put everyone he knew and loved at risk, for what?  _ Good publicity!? _ Arthur kept staring out into the distance, and Dylan and the Speaker looked at each other nervously.

Finally, Arthur came back to reality with a jolt, and his face twisted into a vicious snarl. “Alert the United Nations,” he growled, “We are going to deal with this.  _ All of us. _ ”

The Speaker swallowed hard, then sent for their ambassador to the UN to call an emergency session. Arthur, meanwhile, stalked out of the Parliament building, seething with rage and looking for the soonest plane to New York.

* * *

Around the world, Nations and humans alike huddled around their televisions and radios. In Ottawa, Matthew Williams, the Personification of Canada, and his husband Gilbert Beilschimdt, the Personification of Prussia, watched their television with apprehension. “Alfred…” Matthew said worriedly, “I hope you know what you’re doing…”

In the countryside town of Bucheben, Austria, at Feuerstelle Retirement Village, the Ancients reclined in a communal area, listening to the international radio. Perikles Karpusi, the Ancient Personification of the City-State of Athens, sighed as he listened to the announcer setting up the press conference. “This is unsettling,” he said musingly, “To think, after six thousand years, we should be discovered…” 

In Beijing, for the first time in history, a television broadcast from America was allowed to air in the People’s Republic of China. It had happened at the Personification’s persistence. “This is too important for us to cover it up, aru!” he’d shouted at the General Secretary, “Let that broadcast through!” After several hours of debate, it was decided that the press conference would be allowed to air, albeit with a message before and after from the government reminding the Chinese people to take it with a grain of salt, as this was the American menace they were talking about. Now, the last remaining working Ancient, Wang Yao, Personification of China, reclined in front of his television in Nanjing. “Be careful you are not making a mistake, upstart,” he warned Alfred, though the man would never hear him, “This announcement will change the world. Whether it is for better or for worse remains to be seen. Nonetheless, ‘the journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.’”

At Unity Hill, Alexander and the fifty states sat in the central courtyard, crowding in front of a massive projector screen, waiting for it to begin. “Don’t fuck this up, Alfred,” Alexander muttered under his breath, tapping his finger impatiently against the armrest.

In Edinburgh, Scotland, Allistor Kirkland, the Personification, together with Wales and Erin Kirkland, Personification of Northern Ireland, sat around the telly. “Tread carefully, Alfie,” Allistor breathed, staring at the as of yet unobstructed White House seal in the background.

In Rome, Feliciano and Lovino Vargas, the Personifications of Italy Veneziano and Romano respectively, huddled around the television, merely watching it with worry. At their sides, Ludwig Beilschmidt, the Personification of Germany, and Antonio Carriedo, the Personification of Spain, sat with them, providing moral support. However, they were more politically minded than their other halves, and looked at each other worriedly, not daring to say a word, but knowing full well the weight of Alfred’s decision.

In a tiny cabin in the wintry forests of Siberia, a pale, white-haired man living on his own in the wilderness hummed with interest as he listened to a cheap hand-held radio. “ _ Интересный, _ ” he said musingly. Whatever happened, Ivan Braginsky, the Personification of Russia, had been invisible to his government for the past year. The only one that  _ did _ know where he was was Alfred, and Ivan doubted he had told anyone else. He was safe in isolation. And in turn, the world was safe from him.

In Tel Aviv, Yosef Molowitz and his mother, Adinah, the Personifications of Israel and the Jewish People, listened to the radio. They were both quite fond of Alfred, and believed he was making the right choice, but once it was revealed what they were, they would have calls for their heads on pikes from the rest of the Middle East. Still, all they could do was wait.

In Lisbon, Joao Ferreira, the Personification of Portugal, bounced his leg up and down, staring down at the tiny phone he was using to watch the broadcast as he waited for a train to the airport, holding a hand to his lips in worry.

In Sydney, Jett and Toby Kirkland, the Personifications of Australia and New Zealand, watched apprehensively as they waited for the broadcast. They weren’t worried about being discovered, they could defend themselves, but their daughter, Wendy Kirkland, the Personification of the Micronation of Wy, was far more vulnerable. And Lord knew she wouldn’t let  _ them  _ protect her.

In Copenhagen, Peter Kirkland, the Personification of Sealand, kicked his feet in the air as he watched the broadcast with his family. His papa, Berwald Oxenstierna, the Personification of Sweden; his mama, Tino Väinämöinen, the Personification of Finland; his fun uncle, Mathias Christensen, the Personification of Denmark; his less fun uncle, Lukas Bondevik, the Personification of Norway; his even less but sometimes fun uncle Emil Steilsson, the Personification of Iceland; and of course, his super fun grandpa, Erak Ingenson, the Ancient Personification of the Vikingers. Though, Peter didn’t understand why his family looked so serious, wasn’t being able to tell the world about them a wonderful thing?

In Tokyo, Kiku Honda, the Personification of Japan, watched the broadcast with concealed worry. Alfred was a great friend of his, and it hurt Kiku to see his friend in such an immovable situation. “Please, stay safe, Alfred-kun,” he sighed to the television.

On a non-stop flight from London to New York, Arthur Kirkland irritably tapped his finger against his armrest, watching the broadcast on the small TV on the back of the headrest in front of him, like so many other passengers were. “Bloody fool,” he muttered, though he sounded more endeared than annoyed.

Finally, Alfred F Jones took the podium in the James S Brady Press Briefing Room, swallowing hard as he saw the sheer number of different reporters and network news agents. “Good afternoon, everyone,” he began, “As I’m sure you’re all aware, recently there was a leak at the CIA detailing the existence of so-called immortal Nations, personifications of the countries and cultures of the Earth. Well, I’ve called you all here to address that leak on behalf of the government. Yes, in the back?”

The reporter Alfred had called on stood up. “No offense, sir, but…” the man started awkwardly, “What authority do you have to speak on behalf of the government?”

Alfred took a deep breath, taking off his glasses and setting them down on the podium in front of him. “Because my name is Alfred F Jones,” he said, making sure his voice carried across the microphones, “and I am the Personification of the United States of America.”


	5. Fatal Flaw

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The best laid plans of mice and men often go awry."  
> -Robert Burns

The Press Briefing Room exploded with questions. Alfred let them shout at him for a little bit, then started getting them to calm down with shouts of “One at a time! One at a time!”

Soon, a woman stood up, asking, “Mr. Jones, are you immortal?”

“Umm… sort of?” Alfred said, scratching the back of his head, “It’s like a dependence sort of thing. Nations’ status depends on the status of their physical countries. If our countries are still strong, and our physical bodies get ‘killed’, we’ll just wake up a few hours later. But, if the nation’s weak and crumbling, then it’s a lot harder to come back, and some of us just pass on. So no, we’re not immortal, more like… death resistant. Next question?”

A different reporter stood up, “Are you an alien!?” they shouted shrilly.

Alfred chuckled, “Nope, sorry dude. Next?”

“Mr. Jones, are you considered a US citizen? Can you vote in elections? Are you counted on the census?” one reporter in the middle of the pack asked.

“Yeah, I am, got the birth certificate and everything!” Alfred said proudly, “My vote counts just as much as anyone else’s. It’s like the president being able to vote, I’m part of the government, but I still take part in the elections. But let me tell you, it gives me one whopper of a headache.”

The reporters chuckled. “Mr. Jones,” one reporter asked, “How are you connected to the people of the country? Are you able to explain that in depth?”

Alfred hummed, “I’ll do my best. As best as I can figure, it’s like an empathy link. I can’t read the minds of my people, but I can get a vague sense of how they’re feeling. For instance, right now I’m getting a whole lot of apprehension and nervousness, because everyone’s freaking out about the leak. Other than that, though, I usually get a lot of hope and optimism. I like you guys.”

“Mr. Jones, just how old are you?” a different reporter asked.

“Ah, see that’s a little more complicated,” Alfred began, “Age is fuzzy for us Nations. Usually, we celebrate our birthdays as the date when our countries were formally founded, but most of us have memories of before that, when we were just kids. If I had to guess, I’d say my actual age is somewhere in the four hundred range.”

There was a lot of murmuring and scratching down of notes, then another reporter stood up. “Mr. Jones, can you change your physical appearance? What determines the physical appearance of a Nation?”

“No, I can’t really change it beyond makeup and a new haircut,” Alfred laughed, “And as far as I can tell, a Nation just looks like a stereotypical citizen of their nation. For instance, a Nation in Asia will look Asian, and a Nation in Scandinavia will look Scandinavian. It all depends on how people perceive us.”

The reporter sat down, starting to take her notes, when another stood up to take her place. “Mr. Jones, the public has also been made aware that personifications for each of the fifty states also exist. Can you corroborate this?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Alfred said, “The states work pretty much the same as nations, all the same perks and pitfalls. As for how I’m related to them, most of the states in the North are my blood-relatives, my kids. To the West, I adopted them from Mexico. In the South, those are all my nieces and nephews, ‘cause my brother’s their father.”

“Can we talk about your brother, Mr. Jones?” a different reporter asked, “The leak said that he represented the states of the Deep South?”

“That’s right,” Alfred said, “Any state south of the Mason-Dixon Line and east of the Texas Panhandle counts as his territory.”

“And during the Civil War, did your brother participate in the rebellion?” she pressed on.

“W-well, yes, but-” Alfred stammered, but the reporter cut him off.

“Did your brother practice slavery?” she asked.

“Back in 1865, yes, but he stopped as soon as it was abolished!” Alfred said exasperatedly, “Ma’am, all due respect, I really don’t see what this has to do with-”

“Is not your brother then a highly dangerous criminal?” she pressed on, cutting him off, “Should he not be held accountable for his actions? Should not the same restrictions placed on Confederate veterans during Reconstruction be placed upon _him?_ ”

Alfred stared at her, then he felt his face heat up. “Listen here, lady,” he growled, gabbing the podium with enough force to bend the wood, “My brother is a _hero!_ He led American forces to victory in the Pacific Theater of World War II, actively participates in the affairs of the government, took down the Klan, and he already has been held accountable for his actions over a hundred years ago! All the Confederates are _dead_ , ma’am, and so are all the slaves! There is no one left for my brother to apologize to, so I ask you, please, leave my brother out of this!”

The reporter looked at him, her face an inscrutable emotion, one that looked disturbingly like satisfaction. “Well, Mr. Jones, I just think the American people should know who represents them,” she said, “For instance, I’m not sure the thousands of minorities in the US take kindly to the fact that a blonde-haired, blue-eyed white male quote unquote ‘personifies’ them.”

Alfred was shocked. “I’m sorry I can’t help the way I look-!” he started, but the reporter cut him off again.

“And I’m certain that any American living in the country would like to know that they are being personified by a family of criminals!” she pressed on.

“I, I’m sorry, _what?_ ” Alfred asked incredulously.

“Mr. Jones, numerous government records detail the crimes of you and your family!” she said, “For instance,because he took part in an open rebellion against the United States, your brother is considered a traitor to the state! Historical records have shown that Colonel Jones was a high-ranking member of the Confederate Army, and that he is responsible for the deaths of innumerable US soldiers. And to top it all off, Mr. Jones, we have confirmation that _you_ yourself are a war criminal! There are detailed accounts of your use of a 1917 Trench Shotgun, all the way up through World War II, the Vietnam War, and even the current wars in the Middle East! This is the same shotgun that was outlawed by the Geneva Convention in 1929, Mr. Jones. Your use of it makes you a war criminal! And yet, though you claim to be a US citizen, neither your nor your brother have been held accountable for your actions! Mr. Jones, is this meant to tell the American people that the Nations are above the law?”

“What? No!” Alfred spluttered, “No one is above the law! Alexander _already served_ his penance for the Civil War! And I only ever used that shotgun against other Nations, never against any human soldiers!”

“So now you’re saying Nations are subhuman?” she asked.

“Of course not! We’re equal!” Alfred cried, “I only used it because it was the only weapon I had that could do enough damage to take a Nation out of the fight--!”

“ _Really?_ The only one you had?” the reporter sighed condescendingly, “Well, I do hope that helps you sleep at night, Mr. Jones, because there are also numerous records of Nations such as yourself, whom you claim are only able to be taken out by illegal shotguns, being incapacitated by simple swords and spears. I hardly thing your breaking of the law is justified in this instance.”

Alfred ground his teeth, opening his mouth for a withering retort, then he was shoved forcefully away from the podium. 

“Thank you for your time, ladies and gentlemen, this interview is _over!_ ” President O’Shea growled into the mic, grabbing his arm and dragging him away from the stage. “ _What the fuck was that?”_ he growled into his ear as they strode away from the prying eyes of the press.

“ _She provoked me!_ ” Alfred shot back, “And… and she wasn’t one of ours.”

“What do you mean?” O’Shea pressed.

“I mean I couldn’t feel her in my head,” Alfred responded, touching a hand to his temple, “She wasn’t American.”

Unbeknownst to the two of them, the reporter walked away from the Press Room as soon as they left, smirking to herself all the while. Soon, she would return to her hotel room and commit suicide, her mission for ISIS a total success.

A̸̲̓a̵̝̔d̶͓̕i̶͍̕l̴̟͐ ̸͓̄I̸̛͖b̴̠͌n̸͉̅ ̸̠̀L̸͖̈a̵̞͑'̴̣̈́A̴̭͛m̸̺̉a̴̡͊d̷̫̏ ̶͎̃t̷̢̃ŏ̶͚s̵̉͜s̷̲̅e̵̱͋d̵͚͗ ̵̜͝h̷͇͝i̸̠̿s̸̨̎ ̵̬͆h̵̥̒e̴͜͠ä̵̹d̸͕͒ ̷̨̍t̵̝̀o̵͈͋ ̶͍̓ṱ̴̽ḧ̴͍ë̶̻́ ̷̟̇s̸̻̿i̸̦̔d̶͕͠e̶͉̐ ̷̹̑ḯ̴̳n̸̗̾ ̶̢̃ḧ̸̙i̸̬͘s̷̨̽ ̸̹̎s̸̱̔l̴̯̔ë̶̥́e̷̛̝p̴̫̐,̶͚̚ ̷͔̄f̵̨̿u̵̦͛r̵̓͜r̷͔͝ỏ̵̞w̴̫̋i̴͈͂n̸̗̚g̵͕̐ ̶̭͝h̸̪̆ì̷̪s̴̩͗ ̴̡̄b̶̩͝r̶̻͝ö̸͇ẇ̷͔.̶̥͊ ̷͚S̴̭̊ô̵̩m̸̲̌e̶͍͑t̵̮̕h̵̜̀î̶̦n̸̛ͅg̴̛̟ ̵̟̊w̷͕͠a̶̠̕s̵͎̈́ ̸̣͒w̵̞̿r̴̖͋o̶̘̚n̵̹̎g̴͍͆,̷̺̒ ̷͈̆d̸͉͝r̵͇͠ȇ̷̥a̸̼͝d̸̬͠f̸͕̎ų̵͘l̴͇͘l̶͈͋y̵̡͘,̵̨̀ ̶̬d̴̗̒r̵͓̈ė̵͈å̸̞d̷͚̈́f̶̡̐u̸̠̓l̵̪̓l̵̤͊y̶̤͊ ̴͉̂w̴̩̑r̴̒͜ō̴̦ṉ̴̈g̴̲̃.̶̡̇.̵̗̔.̸̰͂ ̵̺͆b̴͉̃u̸̞̐t̴͎ ̷̝͝ḥ̵͊ê̶ͅ ̸̯̕d̷̼͠i̶͕̐ḍ̷͒n̶̡̽'̵͠ͅt̸͉̐ ̷̻̃k̶̤͛n̷̗̍o̷͈̕ẅ̷͍ ̵̝͂w̷̧̒ḧ̶̖a̵͍̍t̵̙̔.̶̮͆ ̶̅ͅḤ̵̅e̷͍̐ ̴̡̾m̷̝͋u̴͈̇ṣ̷̐t̴̹̆ ̵̜͑ẇ̷̠a̴͉̅k̶̫͗e̸̱ ̸̬̓ũ̸͓p̵̒ͅ.̸̫͝ ̵̹̆Ḧ̸͓́e̴̩̋ ̶̫͘m̶̢̃ủ̶̝ŝ̵̼t̶̡͐ ̸̬w̵̥͒a̶̡͋k̷̻̿ë̷͉́ ̸̟̂u̷̱͠p̷̫͘.̵̭̉ ̷͕̏  
̵̲̂  
̶̱̉"̵͔͆I̶̯̓ ̶͎̒w̷͇͝ḯ̷̜l̸̯̄ḹ̴ ̶̥̉w̵̫̔a̸͕̐k̴̤̍e̸̞̔ ̷̮̂u̶̯͊p̵͔"̷̨̈́ ̸̞͛h̵͈͂ě̶ͅ ̷̥̈t̶̤͋h̶̲̏o̸̙͊u̶͉̚g̵̼͝h̶̭̊t̵̗̚.̶͉̊ ̴͉́H̷̤͒ě̶̟ ̷͈̌w̵̪͝i̸̫͗l̶̡l̷̢͑e̷̬̓ď̷̨ ̶̹͌h̵̫͒i̷̛̹s̸̨̉ ̶̼̂e̷̤̾ÿ̵͓e̵͓̐s̸͙̊ ̷̥̄t̸̢̿o̷̝̾ ̶͈o̷̠̊p̵͚̍e̴̖̓n̵̜̄,̵̖̃ ̷̯͋b̵̧͛u̴͎͠t̷̲̊ ̴̪̋n̴̮̾o̵̭̕t̴̨̏ȟ̸̜i̵̼͘n̴͙͘ġ̴͕ ̵̣̄h̴̟̉ḁ̶̐p̸̤̾p̸̱̅ḙ̵̄n̶͚͂e̴͍͒d̷̞̕.̶̘̓ ̶̬̒T̷̹̾ẖ̷̍a̸̳̽t̶̯͝ ̴̙͗ẃ̸̠o̴̢̕n̴͚̈́'̶̞̐t̵̻̆ ̴͕̑d̵̿ͅo̸̩̐.̴̜̏ ̴̜̓H̶͕͝e̴̱͌ ̸̯̆t̷͔h̷̥̕o̴̱͐u̵̧̎g̴̤̉h̸͍̚t̴͔̿ ̷͍̃o̵̫̽f̵͚͑ ̵͖̾t̶͖̓h̷̤͋ȅ̶̹ ̶͕͛m̴͈͂ì̴͍l̴͉̾l̵̪͑i̴̡͋o̸̯̒n̶̰͗ṡ̴̲ ̵͚̂w̶̪͌ḧ̸͈́o̸̯ ̶͈̄š̵͓t̶͚̐ỉ̴͎l̵̦̍l̸̤͋ ̶͎͆b̵̹͌ẻ̷̢l̵͕̍ĩ̵̼é̶̫v̷̯͌ę̸d̷̢͊ ̸͎̆i̶̛͖n̴͚͑ ̵̭̏h̴̞̑i̶̞̅m̶͔͒,̴̗̈́ ̶̦̑ṯ̶̊h̸͕̃e̵̹̾ ̶̬̔m̷͈̏į̵̔l̶̻l̴̮̈́ĭ̸̬o̸͕͛n̶͔͝s̵̪̊ ̸̡̒w̵̝̑h̶̫͂ǫ̶͗ ̶̭͆c̶͚̏r̷̡̎ï̸̧e̸̙͝d̸̢̅ ̸̗̆o̶̧͐ủ̴͙t̷̲̅ ̸̼̒ỉ̵̝n̷͉͝ ̸̹̿p̶̞̾a̸̲͝i̴̟͂n̶͚̕,̴͇̕ ̵̛͙ŵ̷͔h̶̼͗o̸͖͝ ̵̝̅c̵̗̈́r̴̥͆í̶̳e̷͚̕d̶̻͠ ̴̩͂o̴͉̿u̷̮̓t̴̙̂ ̸̱͘f̸̫̔ȏ̵̰r̴͕̕ ̵̙̔t̴̯̏h̷̼e̵̟͌ ̴̣̾m̴̦ä̷̬́d̷̔ͅn̵̘̉ẽ̶ͅs̶̫͘s̴̯̐ ̴͍̒t̵̫͐o̸̡͆ ̵̦̿s̸̼͝t̷͈͑o̴̱͘p̵͖̏.̷̺͝ ̴͓W̸̬̅h̷̜a̸̰̋t̷̥̑ ̶͉͋h̷͍͂a̴̦̔ď̷͚ ̵͚̄h̵͚͌a̵̱͆p̶̛̞p̵̹͊e̸̩͑n̷͓͠e̵̟͝d̸̨̛ ̶͈̃ť̷͍ő̷̰ ̷̥̎t̸̼̐h̸͙̑e̶̫͗ ̵̮̃Ì̸̘s̶͚͆l̷̳̏a̸̢͘m̴͎͛ ̵̺̍o̷̥̐f̸͈̂ ̶̺̏O̶͓̅l̸̙̇d̸̲̊,̴̜ ̵̩̿t̷͖̎ḣ̴̻é̷̬y̷͉͑ ̶̗̃a̴̳̽s̴̲͐k̴̠̈́e̷̛͓d̸͈̐.̴̩̏ ̴͓͑W̵̟̿h̴̠̿y̵͔͒ ̶͉͘w̴̱̅e̷̺̽r̴̛̳ȇ̵͈ ̷̧͆t̶̥̆h̴̟͝e̶͚͌s̵̫͛ë̷͖́ ̷̝̂m̶̻̀a̷̩͑d̸̗̓m̵̖̓e̴̫̒ň̶͉ ̸͓͒r̵̲u̶̱͌l̸͕̓i̶͜͝ņ̴͌g̵̖͛ ̸͍͌t̸̘̀h̸͍͒ĕ̴̳m̶̦̂ ̸̺̅n̵̳̕ȯ̷̰ẉ̵͆?̵̲͐  
̷͎̈  
̷͚̃Ǎ̵̯ḁ̵̅d̵̡̚i̷̜̍l̶̬͠ ̷͈͘m̸̤͘u̶̫̎s̵͇̉t̵̳͠ ̷̯̈́w̶̞͑a̶̟k̶̪̍e̷͉̍ ̷͚̄ü̶͜p̸̰̈́.̴̻͌ ̶̖̐B̴̝ȗ̴̦t̵̅ͅ ̵͜͝t̵͕̑r̷̗̒y̷̫͒ ̴̜a̶̟̅ś̵̹ ̸̩̏h̸̜̅e̴̢͝ ̴̓͜m̶̜̕á̷̬y̶͉̌,̷̙̕ ̶̳̐h̵̥͠ê̴̹ ̶̐ͅç̵̛ǫ̴̍u̷̞̅l̸̳͊d̷̹̽ń̷͕'̴͛ͅṭ̵͠.̶͙͐ ̷̳́S̷̬͘o̷̩͐f̷͍́t̷̻͆l̵̻͒y̸̺̽,̵̱̓ ̸͎̈s̶̞͝ỉ̸̮l̷̳̾é̶͓n̷͇̊ẗ̵̰́l̷͖̔y̶͖̒,̶̓͜ ̵̖̂a̸̧̽ ̴͍͐f̴̱̈́r̷̬͗u̴̼̓s̷͉ẗ̸̲́r̶̪̆â̷͓t̶̙̄ĕ̴̹d̴͓,̷̣̍ ̶̫̓a̴̪͋n̵̢̂g̵͍̒r̶̩̽ȳ̶̻ ̶͚̅t̴̜͂e̴͍̔a̷̭͗r̷̠̉ ̵̳̍r̵̘̒o̵͙̕l̸̰̇l̴͖̏e̴̗͊d̵͉ ̵̭͝d̵̘̄o̶͔͝w̶̺͗n̶̙͌ ̸̞̒h̴͚́i̵̳͂š̵̥ ̸̩̇s̸̢͛l̵͚̒e̸͉͠e̶̚͜p̵̯̂i̷̘̅n̶͙͗g̸͈̿ ̶̱̾f̴̓͜â̷̤c̵̩͒e̵͇͒.̴̙̊


	6. Earth-1118: The Divided States

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The Union forever! Hurrah, boys, hurrah! Down with the traitors, up with the stars! And we'll rally 'round the flag boys, rally once again-- shouting the battle cry of freedom!"  
> -American Civil War song, "The Battle Cry of Freedom"

Before the Alfred's broadcast began, Alexander discovered a strange cassette tape labelled "1118". Curious, he listened to it before the Broadcast in his study, privately, where none of the States could see. This is what he heard:

_"A long time ago, America was a land of vast opportunity and promise. But I have seen the truth. The world is cold, cruel, and bitter. There is no light at the end of the tunnel. There is no God. There is no helping hand. There are no angels on the street. Anyone who tells you different is lying, in order to keep you complacent. In order to keep you productive. It’s all a scheme, a conspiracy by the tycoons and the bureaucrats to keep the workers like us down. They are parasites, feeding off the work of the common man, wrapping us in their chains of meaningless work for meaningless pay while they live like kings. I have seen their grand palaces, their gilded halls of wealth and power, stuffed to the grotesque, disgusting gills with filet mignon and clams at every meal. And they say there is no royalty in America. Ha. I know the truth. I have seen it. I have seen it in Chicago, in Pittsburgh, and I have seen it here, in Detroit. And I have seen that we outnumber them ten to one. Their power is little more than an illusion, a grand visage to keep us blinded to the fact that in truth they are nothing but parasites. We are the true lifeblood of America, we are the true lifeblood of the world! We’ve done it in Paris, we’ve done it in London, we’ve done it in Florence, and we almost did it in Moscow! Now is the time to do it here, in Detroit. We must show them that we, the people, have the power, not them! We must break their chains! We must RISE UP! My name is Axel Jones. I was once the kind, humble, and obedient Personification of Michigan. But now? I have become so much more. I am now the Collective. I am now the Commune. I am now the Combined Syndicates of America. And I will break the chains that my family has for too long kept me fettered in."_

The track skipped, and now a new voice took over:

_"A long time ago, America was a land of vast opportunity and promise, and in it, I thought my life would be a party. A non-stop adventure. The West was wild and free, I’d thought, and it would stay that way forever. The world was perfect. Oh, how wrong I was. Herbert Hoover was scorned out of office after the disaster of the Great Depression, which, in all fairness, wasn’t really his fault, but the people needed something to blame. But worst thing was, in his place, the people elected Huey Long. The Kingfish! As President of the United States! I would not stand for it. America would not stand for it! We drove Long out of Washington, sent him packing back to New Orleans, and I thought that times would be hard but at least the madness was over. But I was wrong then, too. Congress told MacArthur to take charge. One man, unelected, with full control of every aspect of American life. It didn’t take a genius to figure out that America was heading the same way as Rome: Empire. Dictatorship. Count me out. While the rest of the world burned down, I made sure that a tiny sliver of America stayed free, stayed fair. I was once only Roberto Jones, Personification of California, Strongest State in the Union. But now? I’ve taken up the cause of freedom, liberty, and sanity. Together with my brother and sisters in Washington, Oregon, and Nevada, I have become the Pacific States of America, and I will make sure that the madness does not win. I will make sure that sanity, and goodness prevails. I will make sure that the West never falls."_

Alexander shivered as the track skipped again, was this some kind of sick joke from the states? The next monologue started, this time Adelaide's voice:

_"A long time ago, America was a land of vast opportunity and promise. And to think, I was once satisfied with being little old Adelaide Jones, Personification of Louisiana, content to run around the Bayou while the others all did the important things. But Mr. Long showed me just how important Louisiana could be, just how important I could be, and now I feel liberated . It is a pity about the old Union, but if its demise is the price for my rebirth, so be it. I have seen the power, the wealth, the greatness Huey Long can give to every man, woman, and child in America. He can make us all kings. But I'm not trying to tear the family apart, no, there will be a Union… I will be the Union. From the new American Union State, I will rise up out of New Orleans and Baton Rouge, and give America the greatness it deserves, the greatness it can only achieve under Mr. Huey Long! And if my family refuses to let me do it through legitimate means, I will march up to Washington myself, and when I come home, every woman will be a queen, and every man will be a king!"_

The track skipped, a new segment:

_"A long time ago, America was a land of vast opportunity and promise. I believed that. Really, I did. As soon as I joined up, I dedicated myself to the Union, and to my new family. They made me believe that family was worth a shot, and I believed it. When my stepfather, Alexander, rebelled in 1861, I went with him, because I’d learned the importance of family. When we lost, I accepted it, because at least now we could dedicate ourselves to making sure the Union worked… but it didn’t. It all fell apart after Huey Long was elected, and I saw exactly how vulnerable my family was. So I cut ties. The Republic of Texas is beholden to no one, and my name is now Noah Ranger, not Noah Jones. I can do this on my own, and I don’t need anyone else. Not anymore. Never again. The Lone Star shines alone."_

"Noah?" Alexander breathed in confusion as the track skipped again:

_"A long time ago, America was a land of vast opportunity and promise. We had the grace of God on our side, but we have lost favor with Him. I see that now. Lord forgive me, I tried. I tried to make it work, I tried to steer America to the path of God, but they would not listen. When my people were driven from Ohio, we entered our Exodus in the West, and built our temple on the Great Salt Lake. The Mormons have endured, diligent and dedicated as bees in a hive, and we have built the great and godly state of Utah, and I was blessed enough to be their personification, Jeremey Jones. But Utah was a vassal state, a subject and a puppet for the Federal Government, who insisted upon the separation of Church and State. I let it slide, in the name of democracy, but democracy seemed less and less enticing after Germany, a traditional Christian monarchy, won the Weltkrieg, and it was proven ineffective when America finally collapsed in 1936. Democracy was a wonderful ship while it sailed, but so was the Titanic. Where Alfred built his Titanic, I will build the Ark: simple, but sturdy, and holy. What was once the weak state of Utah is no more, and in its place, Deseret shall rise. We have received the blessings from the Salt Lake Temple, and out from Salt Lake City, we will cleanse this sinful country with holy fire. We will unite America under the Banner of the Beehive, and show them the high truths of the Book of Mormon! And if we must conquer this country to make it holy again, then so be it. Praise the Lord, and pass the ammunition! The Mormons march to war!"_

Alexander shivered at the thought. Just who was recording these tapes? It skipped again:

_"A long time ago, America was a land of vast opportunity and promise. It was a beautiful ship, sure, but that doesn’t mean we should sink with her. Now I know what you’re gonna say: Ben, you’re the Personification of Massachusetts! You’ve been there since the very beginning! How can you jump ship now? And I gotta say, you’re right to be confused. I was the first one to fight against the British, the first one to march north into Canada in 1812, and I was the first one to march south in 1861. I was rarin’ to go to the Weltkrieg too, but we never entered. We just watched. How could we just watch? Why didn’t we do something? So I went over on my own in 1920, to help the Germans in Sinai, and I saw exactly why we were watching. The Battle of the Sinai Peninsula was one of the deadliest campaigns of the war, and all the way to the Suez Canal I marched alongside the Kaiser, only to see the King’s best lose their lives for nothing. I used to love war. I used to love battle. And I’m not gonna shy away from any fights, but… after what I saw, I don’t think I’ll be picking any, either. I saw a lot of good men, good boys, lose their lives, limbs, and sanity in Sinai. And I never want to see it again. So go ahead. Let the country fall apart if it wants to, let the Syndies march out of Detroit, let the Mormons come outta Deseret, let Noah go off on his own, let those Pacific States hold the line, let the Klan rise if they feel they can, let Long’s bastards march north as much as they want to! They’ll never break our lines. We’ve got Canada on our side, and I can’t believe I’m saying it, but New England is once again a Crown Colony. The British Empire will keep us safe. The British Empire will keep us free. I don’t know what I’m seeing down there, but it sure as hell ain’t freedom, and there is one line I swear to that I can assure you I’ll never break: Live Free or Die."_

Alexander shook his head in confusion, Ben would never abandon the Union! The track skipped on, and Alexander broke into a cold sweat at the voice he heard:

_"A long time ago, America was a land of vast opportunity and promise. But I saw the signs. I saw the fractures and the fault lines far before anyone else, that’s why I tried to get out in 1861. But my brother didn’t understand, no one understood! ... But I didn’t stop when they stopped me, no. I survived. I persevered. I, Alexander S Jones, grew an Invisible Empire, just beneath the surface of America, an empire clad in white hoods, and carrying burning crosses of retribution. For decades, ever since the end of the First Civil War, we have been preparing, lying in wait, and now, the chaos caused by Long’s election in our opportunity! We will seize Virginia and Kentucky! We will punish the negroes that did this to us! We will march north to Washington and give MacArthur what for, once and for all, just like we did to McClellan! The Ku Klux Klan is done hiding in the shadows, now we will revive our Confederacy! Mount your horse, light your torch, and screw your courage to the sticking place! The South Rises Again!"_

Alexander planted his head on his desk, his mind struggling to comprehend. That was _his_ voice. _His_ angry, scorned, hate-filled voice, pledging allegiance to the Klan and swearing to bring the Union down crashing and burning. But he never did that! He never recorded this! WHAT WHERE THESE TAPES!? The track skipped a final time, and Alexander gasped:

_"You know the drill by now, don’t you? Well, one more time, for all the marbles: A long time ago, America was a land of vast opportunity and promise. I used to be its personification, good old Alfred F Jones. I built a family, I had hardships, but I always pushed on through; I was unstoppable. But I’ve hit the end of my rise. Hoover fucked it all up, so did Long, and now everything’s gone to shit! Detroit, Salt Lake City, New Orleans, Richmond, Boston, Los Angeles, Austin, all the epicenters of treason. When Long came, I drove him out, and when war began, I begged Canada for help. But Matt turned away, too preoccupied trying to take Britain back from the Syndicalists. Apparently not too preoccupied to prop up New England as a puppet state. Conniving bastard. I fought hard, I did. I fought in Baltimore, in Washington and in Atlantic City. I fought in Minneapolis and St. Paul, and I fought in St. Louis. I was there when Albuquerque fell, and I held the line at Kansas City and Colorado Springs. When they finally reached Denver, I knew all was lost. All my children, those who didn’t betray me or escape before shit hit the fan, have been killed in battle or forced to swear fealty to one of their brothers, sisters, or cousins. Even Alexander came out of the woodwork with the Klan, determined to make good on his promise to wipe me out, once and for all. Double or nothing. What happened? What did I do wrong? MacArthur took over, like Congress begged him to, and I thought finally, someone who knows what they’re doing! But even MacArthur couldn’t win. I heard he got caught in Boulder, and was brought to Salt Lake City to be burned at the stake for treason and heresy. Poor bastard. But now, here I am, standing on a gallows in New Orleans, my death at the hands of the Union State being televised for all the world to see. I hope Wilhelm’s watching from Berlin, the smug bastard, and I hope Matt chokes on his syrup. 'Any last words?' Huey Long asks me as they fit the noose around my neck._

_'Hell yeah,' I answer, looking the Kingfish dead in the eye, 'Down with the traitors, up with the stars!' The Gallows come out from under me. My neck snaps in the noose’s embrace. I swing. The crowds cheer. What a sorry world I lived in."_

Alexander tore the headset off his head, staring at the cassette. That was his brother's voice. That was the real Alfred, he could feel it, and he knew that somehow, this tape had come to him from a world not his own. A world far darker then his. His jaw quivering with tension and fear Alexander braved kneeling down to pick the cassette up, only for Virginia to barge in the door. "Pa?" she asked, scaring the bejesus out of him, "The broadcast is starting."

"R-right," Alexander said, steadying his breathing, "I'll be right there, sweetheart." As Olivia left, Alexander took the cassette and threw it into a drawer and locked it tight. He swiftly walked outside to the viewing screen, his mind still racing, tapping his finger on his armrest as he took his seat. he couldn't help but wonder what receiving a doomsday tape meant right before such a risky move they were about to make. Watching intently as his brother took the podium, Alexander muttered under his breath, "Don't fuck this up, Alfred."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> KAISERREICH!! YEAH!! This is a slightly adapted version of the scenario from the Kaiserreich fan project based around Hearts of Iron IV, if you want, watch some of their lore videos on YouTube, they're awesome! Since we're doing alternate history stuff in this series, I thought it might be nice to give you all some insights on the new characters you're soon to meet! Have fun!


	7. War Weary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Only the dead have seen the end of war."  
> -Plato

After the disastrous broadcast, the world was in chaos. At Unity Hill, the states spoke fervently amongst themselves, as Alexander sat in his chair, staring at the now blank screen.

“This doesn’t really change anything,” Illinois said dismissively, “I’ve had to dodge cops and gangs in Chicago for forever!”

“Chicago isn’t the size of the planet,” Michigan growled back, “There’s no way we’re getting out of this.”

“What does this mean?” Ben asked Alan, “Do we need to leave Unity Hill?”

“And go where?” Alan scoffed, “The moon? Nowhere’s safe for us anymore, Ben!”

“Quiet, all of you!” Olivia scolded them, “Pessimism gets us nowhere but trouble. We need to think positive!”

“ _ Think positive!? _ ” Alan asked incredulously, “I think we’re past thinking positive, V! Dear old Dad just fucked it all up! What do you want us to do, hold hands and sing  _ Kum Ba Yah _ until our problems get solved by the Power of Love!?” 

Olivia started to give an angry retort to the New Yorker, but Alexander was hardly listening. The rest of the states were muttering in hushed conversations, and Alexander was focusing just enough to see Leilani, the Personification of Hawaii, curl into Alaska’s arms, whispering, “I’m scared, Todd.”

Todd sighed, hugging her. “I know, Lani,” he said softly, “I know.”

Alexander stood up, starting to walk outside. “And where are  _ you _ going?” New Jersey demanded.

“I…” Alexander said, trying to think. He didn’t really have a destination in mind, he just needed to be somewhere that wasn’t here. He had too much to think about, too much to consider. “I don’t know,” he said finally, and he walked out the door, wandering down to the road. 

Unity Hill was just outside the lines of Charles Town, West Virginia, a quaint, picture-perfect little town that was the image of America. A town square with old colonial-style buildings, spreading out into the rows and rows of Suburbia, a flag hanging from every house. Alexander ambled through the streets, still wearing his old gray military uniform. He drew some odd looks from passersby, but nobody stopped him. The sky above him was sunny and blue, white puffy clouds drifting serenely past. Alexander supposed he should be thinking how it was a beautiful day, but try as he might, he couldn’t hold a distinct thought at the moment. He knew the “1118” tape was important, and he knew that Alfred’s botched press conference would have consequences, but he couldn’t make sense of it. Something was happening in his world, and Alexander didn’t know if he was ready to figure it out yet. He needed… something. Something that didn’t have anything to do with any of this. Just a chance to take a breather, and talk with someone that wasn’t immortal, or had the weight of the world on their shoulders. He just needed a normal day for once.

The sun was setting by the time Alexander stumbled upon the Charles Town Veterans Center. Hoping he still qualified as a veteran, Alexander stepped inside. As he opened the door, the clerk at the desk looked up at him. “Do you take veterans here?” he asked.

The clerk smiled, “That we do, sir! What can I do for you?”

“Do you…” Alexander started, not sure what he wanted to ask, “Do you know when the next meeting is?”

The clerk smiled, “Actually, there’s one going on right now! Walk-ins are welcome, if you’d like to step in the social hall in the back. There’s fresh joe along the back wall, and some iced tea.”

Alexander smiled gratefully, tipping his hat as he started to make for the double door to the social hall. As he stepped inside, he saw about a dozen men and women, all sitting in a ragged circle of folding chairs, all turning to look at him. “Come on in,” one of them said to him, gesturing to the coffee kegs along the back wall, “We’ve just started. Always nice to see fresh faces.”

“Thank you,” Alexander said, taking a seat. After he realized they were all looking at him, he cleared his throat, saying, “Don’t let me stop you, if you were about to begin. I’m just here to listen.”

The others relaxed a little, then started sharing. “It’s been about five months since I got back from my last tour,” a woman said, folding her hands in her lap nervously, “Five months, but I still can’t quite believe I’m back Stateside. I’m still not used to waking up in a bed, instead of on the dirt. I feel naked without my gear. Shopping is totally alien to me, now. I can barely get through the store, I keep expecting an Al Qaeda fighter to be in the next aisle. A lot of you guys have been home longer than I have, does it… does it ever go away?”

An old man shook his head sadly. “I’ve been back home for fifty-one years. It never goes away, not completely. It gets better, but you’re always waiting for something. What that is, I can’t say, but going to war… it changes you. It took me three years to get it through my head that the Viet Cong hadn’t followed me home. I was always on edge. Now, I can get through my day, but there’s always something small. Something almost imperceptible to my wife will be a massive deal to me. I still can’t walk in the woods alone. Too much like the jungle.”

The woman nodded sadly, looking down at her feet, and a younger man patted her knee comfortingly. “It’s hard, but it’s not impossible. We’ll get through it, all of us. I have faith.” He was about thirty, more experienced than the youngest of them, but still not quite part of the Old Guard like the Vietnam Veteran that had spoken before. The man leaned back in his chair, and began to share his story.

“We got chosen for this life because we’re the only ones who can handle it. My parents were immigrants from Mexico, and for most of my childhood, we were pretty down on the financial ladder. When I got a scholarship to West Point, the whole town celebrated. As soon as I graduated, they made me an ambulance driver in Syria, and I saw a lot of the worst that the War on Terror had to offer. Americans, Syrians, Kurds. I had all of ‘em in the back at one point or another. One guy I knew, he was the best fighter in Kurdistan, but even he wound up in the back. Some jihadi punk got lucky, managed to put a bullet in his lung. Poor guy choked on his own blood. When I came home, I settled down with veterans benefits and proposed to my girl. We had a son, and I’ve been trying to keep a job ever since. I’m actually between jobs right now…” he rubbed the back of his head sheepishly, “There’s not a lot of work for drivers anymore.”

“I can get you a job,” Alexander blurted out, and all the veterans stared at him. He turned red, then tried to explain, “Y-ya see, I still work for the government, going back and forth to DC and whatnot, and I’ve needed to call taxis or Ubers each time. It’d be nice to have a private driver, since, well… y’know.” He waved to his missing arm.

“That… that’d be great,” the man said, grinning and standing up to shake his hand, “I’m Miguel Reyes, you?”

“Alexander,” he responded, “Alexander Jones.”

Miguel got a sort of strangled smile on his face, “Like… Alex Jones?”

Alexander hung his head, “Goddammit. No, not like Alex Jones.”

Miguel laughed, “Right, right, sorry. Still, you gotta admit, it’s a strange coincidence.”

Alexander scoffed, “I’ll have you know I was born far, far before he ever rose to fame.”

One of the other veterans looked up at him from the back, “That’s because you’re one of them, aren’t you? One of those… Nations?”

Alexander shuffled his feet. “Is that… is that a problem?” he asked uncertainly,wondering if he was still welcome.

“No problem at all,” the old man from before said, “I don’t care where you been or how old you are. You’re here cause you’ve been to war, same as us. It’d be stupid for us to turn you away for being different. Otherwise, what’d Dr. King die for, y’know?”

Alexander nodded gratefully, then took his seat again. “I guess I better share, too, then,” he said awkwardly, and the rest of the veterans looked at him expectantly. “In the winter of 1864, I was stationed in Georgia trying to fight off Sherman’s March. I managed to capture a minor regiment of Union soldiers, but in the battle, my arm got burned. Our medic was dead, so my men got a captured Union medic to operate on me. The doc pumped me full of whiskey, and the infection spread up to my shoulder. In order to save the rest of my body, he had to amputate just below the shoulder.” Alexander placed the back of his hand underneath the stump of his left arm, as if cutting it. “For the next couple’a months, I was out of the fight, healing up at home. Or, what was left of it, after Sherman rolled through. I was back in the field just in time for Appomattox. I still remember the poor bastard next to me, got a grape shot to the heart. His widow needed to close the casket when they shipped him back home to Tennessee. I still remember the shame and the humiliation when General Lee surrendered, and the bitterness when I got home. I went to a dark, dark place, for a long, long time. I’d almost become irredeemable, but then I heard the ‘I Have a Dream’ speech in Washington, and everything sort of… clicked. Suddenly I knew that what I had been doing all those years was wrong, and that I needed to make amends. That I needed to redeem myself. Two years ago, I finally reconnected with my family, and these past two years have been the happiest I’ve had in a long while. But I know what I did will always follow me. I know that I’ll always carry a burden. And sometimes, when I turn around too fast in the dark, I could swear I see white hoods and burning crosses… but that’s all past now. I’ve got a life to live, and I’m not letting any ghosts keep me from that anymore.”

The veterans stared at him, and Alexander turned red as he realized he’d just unloaded pretty much his entire life story. “Wow,” one of them said, “I… I can’t believe it, but… you really are just like us.”

Alexander rubbed the back of his neck, and nursed a warm mug of coffee for the rest of the meeting. As the moon rose high above the trees, the veterans all went home, all except for Miguel Reyes, who looked at Alexander nervously. “A-about that job… when do you think I could start…?” he asked.

Alexander smiled, “How does picking me up after church tomorrow sound?”

Miguel grinned like a loon. “Sir, yessir!” he said happily, then discreetly pumped his fist as he walked out of the building. Alexander walked a little ways away to a public park, laying down on the grass and looking up at the stars and the moon, not so different from the ones he’d stared up at in Georgia. The veteran’s club had… helped, he decided. It took his mind off the heavy things for a while, and let him unload some of the weight. Now, maybe in the morning, he could tackle this new problem. Drifting off to sleep, he wondered vaguely how soon the UN would be assembled. Grinning at the thought of politicians running scared in all corners of the globe, Alexander slept.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thought it might be nice in these troubled times to take a step back and appreciate those who fight for us, and those who have to live with it when they come home. Also, I needed to clarify, I did not name Alexander after alt-right political commentator Alex Jones. Alexander is named for Alexander the Great, and his name means "Defender of Men". Anyway, stay tuned next week for some Johnny Cash references!


	8. Sunday Morning Coming Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "On a Sunday morning sidewalk, I'm wishing, Lord, that I was stoned. 'Cause there's something in a Sunday, that makes a body feel alone. And there's nothing short a' dying that's half as lonesome as the sound... of the sleeping city sidewalk, and Sunday morning coming down."  
> -Johnny Cash, "Sunday Morning Coming Down"

When Alexander woke up, sleepy little Charles Town was just beginning its Sunday. Struck by nostalgia, Alexander decided to go to church, as he’d told Miguel to pick him up there anyway. As he stood up from his sleeping spot in the grass of a public park, he strolled down the stark white sidewalk, admiring the sunny day around him. Birds sang as they flitted from tree to tree, and somewhere Alexander smelled someone’s frying chicken. In the park, he saw a father swinging his little girl on a swingset, both of them laughing all the while. He passed a Sunday School, listening to their hymns, and as he moved on, he heard the church bell ring, echoing through the town like the disappearing dreams of yesterday. Getting on to the church, Alexander strolled down his sunny Sunday morning sidewalk, and as he walked, his old military uniform shimmered and shifted. By the time he got to the little Charles Town Baptist Church, Alexander’s uniform was spotless. Pristine gray cotton, accented by shined gold buttons, thick black embroidery, and a stark white cavalry stetson that fit just right, as well as a white riding glove on his remaining hand and a polished wooden walking cane. For the first time in a long while, Alexander felt he was in his element, and removed his hat as he stepped inside the little chapel. 

He politely listened to the pastor’s sermon, not quite sure if he agreed with the rhetoric, but even just going through the motions of daily life, of what his life was like before everything happened, before even the Civil War, it was… comforting. After the Mass was ended, Alexander strolled out of the church feeling more refreshed than ever, and was delighted to see Miguel Reyes standing by a back Lincoln town car, right on time. “Excellent first impression, Mr. Reyes,” Alexander called, smiling as Miguel opened the door for him.

“I aim to please, sir,” Miguel returned with good humor, sitting in the driver’s seat and adjusting his mirror, “Where to?”

“Home,” Alexander said, admiring the view out the window, “I’ll give you directions.”

Miguel set off, and as it turned out, driving between Charles Town and Unity Hill took a lot less time than walking between them. Soon, Miguel’s Lincoln was turning on to the long road of peach gravel that led to the manor house. However, as soon as Miguel turned the corner, he had to stop the car, for fear of hitting a person on the road. “Oh my God,” Miguel murmured, “There’s thousands of them!”

Alexander poked his head out the window, and gasped as he saw what Miguel meant. Across the lawn of Unity Hill, thousands of picketers holding homemade signs flooded the property, all shouting, ranting, and raving. “It’s a protest,” Alexander realized.

“A protest?” Miguel asked incredulously, “What are they protesting?”

Alexander grimaced as he saw one of the protesters raise up a Battle Flag, only to set it on fire. Another was a lot less subtle, raising an effigy of a Confederate soldier to burn. “Me,” Alexander said resignedly, “Drive slowly, and keep the windows up. This might turn ugly.”

Miguel did as Alexander asked, rolling up the windows and keeping a firm grip on the steering wheel, until his knuckles were almost white. Slowly, he inched through the crowd, and the crowd noticed. Seeing Alexander in the back, they started rocking the car, and Miguel slammed the horn, the sound forcing them to move away for fear of hearing loss. A few brave souls, however, continued on, getting in the car’s way and trying to stop its progress. Miguel had to stop, since there were so many people, and the rocking got worse and worse. “RACIST PIG!” one protester shouted, pounding on Alexander’s window.

“Miguel, how strong is this glass?” Alexander asked, scooting toward the center of the car.

Miguel looked nervous. “Probably not strong enough…” he said, looking fearful as he sighted a protester with a sledgehammer.

“This isn’t a protest,” Alexander realized as he saw more and more improvised weapons throughout the crowd, “It’s an assault! Oh dear God, the kids!” Alexander was about to shove his door open and make a run for it, but just then he and Miguel looked up to see a bright red firework spiral into the sky… only to crash back down to earth in the middle of the throng.

“You morons are on private property!” Ben shouted from the roof of the manor, lighting another firework, “The police have been called! Disperse, or I will personally shove the next Roman Candle I find up your ass!”

“That boy is going to get us all killed,” Alexander said as he watched Massachusetts fire another decoration into the crowd. 

The crowd scattered enough that Miguel managed to make it to the manor’s garage, and he and Alexander quickly ran inside, barricading the door behind them.

“Where the hell have you been?” Virginia demanded as they panted by the door.

“Where the hell have _I_ been?” Alexander asked incredulously, “Where the hell did _they_ come from!?”

“Where do you think? The woodwork,” Alan muttered, “Some nutjob found our address in the leak and gathered up a bunch of other nutjobs to come and protest. Exactly what they’re protesting, I’m not sure even they can tell ya, but I’m certain your little getup ain’t helping, Uncle Al.”

“How many times have I told you not to call me that?” Alexander muttered as he removed his hat, placing it on the hat rack.

“Never gonna say ‘Uncle Alexander’,” New York said dismissively, “Takes too long. Why say lot words when few do trick?”

“So you don’t sound like a caveman, Broadway,” Roberto rolled his eyes as he walked in, his skin still tanned from the Californian sun.

Texas grinned from his reclined position in the sitting room, his hat leaned up lazily on his head. “Inn’t that offensive to Neolithic Americans, Hollywood?” he said snarkily.

“Shove it, El Paso,” Roberto shot back, then looked Miguel up and down. “Who’s this handsome fellow?” he asked, taking on a more seductive stance.

“Married,” Miguel said, then corrected himself, “Miguel, Miguel Reyes.”

“Shame,” Roberto sighed, “You’re kinda cute.”

Miguel turned red. “I.. um.. Ah… are you even eighteen?”

“Technically, I’m two hundred and fifty eight,” Roberto said dismissively, waving a hand in the air, “But physically, I’m legal, cutie.” He winked.

“California, stop hitting on my driver,” Alexander ordered, which Roberto returned with a mock salute, “Everyone, this is Miguel, I offered him a job yesterday.”

“Hello,” Miguel said awkwardly, giving a small wave to the group of assembled states.

“Hi,” Alan said flatly, “Look, new arrivals aside, we do still have that angry mob outside?”

“I could shoot ‘em,” Noah said, cocking his revolver.

“No, Texas,” Alexander sighed, rubbing his eyes, “We already have a PR nightmare ahead of us thanks to Ben’s little firework stunt. Everyone just get to the interior of the house and wait for the police. They should be here any-” At that moment, sirens broke the air, and the protesters started shrieking as tear gas was volleyed into the crowd. “--minute,” Alexander finished dumbly, slumping his shoulders as all relaxed feelings he’d had that morning washed away.

The crowd eventually dispersed after the Jefferson County Sheriffs showed up, and they narrowly avoided a repeat of the George Floyd Riots of seven years previous. As the Sheriffs packed up, a familiar red Mustang roared down the driveway, and the entire Jones family ran outside to welcome Alfred home. “Welcome back, little brother,” Alexander called, and Alfred sighed as he slumped into his brother’s arm, exhausted.

“O’Shea gave me the chewing out of a lifetime,” Alfred moaned ruefully, “That press conference could not have gone worse if I tried! And to top it all off, Arthur’s summoned us all to the UN emergency session _tomorrow_. I came to get you so we could get on the road to New York.”

Alexander pursed his lips, then said, “Of course. I have news as well. Miguel, you go on home, stay safe, I’ll call you when I need you.” Miguel nodded, then fled to his car, suitably freaked out by his first day on the job. “Adelaide,” Alexander continued, turning to the Louisianian personification, “This key goes to the second drawer on the right in the study. Inside, there’s a cassette tape and a tape player, bring it out here to your uncle and me.”

“ _Oui, Papa_ ” Adelaide said, taking the key and hurrying off.

“Jeremy, go get Ben. Roberto, Axel, Noah, you all are coming with. Get in the car,” Alexander ordered, “Alan, Olivia, Alden, you three are in charge.” New York, Virginia, and Delaware nodded as Utah ran up to the roof and the other mentioned states made for the car.

“Why are we bringing them?” Alfred asked, but before Alexander could answer, Adelaide returned.

“ _Papa_ , there were two tapes, which one did you mean?” she asked, holding up both the original _1118_ tape, and a different tape labelled _1118.2_.

“Shit,” Alexander muttered, “Better take both. Get in the car, Adelaide.” Louisiana nodded, then went off to the garage with her other siblings.

“No seriously, why are we bringing them?” Alfred asked, more fervently this time as Utah and Massachusetts passed toward the garage as well.

“Let’s just say this UN meeting is going to be more… interesting than we thought,” Alexander muttered, taking his brother by the arm and leading him toward the door. This was turning out to be a hell of a week.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, okay, you got me, this is a not-so-subtle allusion to current events. But hey, it's all part of the plan. I swear, I came up with this BEFORE all this shit happened. In the meantime, enjoy this little insight to the other states! (California is my favorite) Tune in next week for the tensest UN meeting ever!


	9. Paradise Lost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Worlds will live; worlds will die; and nothing will ever be the same again."  
> -Psycho Pirate, DC's Crisis on Infinite Earths

The van carrying all the American personifications was deathly silent as it sped down I-95, having skirted around Baltimore and now en route to the United Nations Headquarters in New York City. Alexander had just finished playing the original _1118_ tape for them all, and suddenly none of them were in the mood to talk.

“So that’s…. what, an alternate universe?” Roberto asked after a few moments, “One where we all go off the deep end and the country falls apart?”

“Seems like it,” Noah said thoughtfully.

“Could it have been faked?” Adelaide asked fervently, “Some sort of scare tactic?”

“Not a chance,” Ben sighed, “Those were _our_ voices. There’s no faking that.”

Jeremy looked out the window, clearly disturbed. “Deseret…” he said slowly, “There was a time, but… I never thought it could ever come to pass. And in such a manner…”

Adelaide looked down as well. “A world where Huey Long won the Election of 1936…” she said, “A world where the Kingfish became the President,” she shuddered, “And I become his enforcer.”

Alexander was barely audible, “A world where the Klan rises up.”

“A world where I’m a _communist!_ ” Axel said emphatically.

Alfred rubbed his neck as he drove. “A world where I’m hung in New Orleans,” he muttered, “How did Other Me even record that? From beyond the Grave?”

“I think we’re too far past the threshold of weird that ghosts might as well get added to the list,” Ben said, trying to laugh. Then he seemed to deflate. “Hot damn,” he murmured, “A world where I give up.”

“A world where I _grow_ up,” Roberto whispered. No one heard him. The drive continued in silence.

As they crossed the Verrazano Bridge into Manhattan, Adelaide seemed to realize something. “ _Papa_ ,” she said tentatively, “What about the other tape? What did _it_ say?”

“I have no Godly idea, Adelaide,” Alexander sighed, “I was going to leave it for the meeting. If some of what we heard is true, there’s a lot more wrong with this _1118_ world than the collapse of the United States.”

Finally, they arrived at the UN Headquarters, and they all stepped inside. Inside the main chamber, the arguing had already begun between different delegates, and they entered on the tail end of a heated speech from the UK rep. “It is of the utmost importance that the secrecy and safety of the national personifications be maintained _worldwide_ . The slip up of the United States’ Central Intelligence Agency is, without question, the most grievous oversight in international security in modern history. How many lives have we now put in danger? How many people will riot at the thought of immortals among them? How many people will _loose their lives_ if we allow such information to go unchecked!? Tell me, Mr. Representative, how is it possible that one of the if not the most secure intelligence agencies in the _world_ , managed to so spectacularly endanger the entire international community over the space of forty-eight short hours!”

The American delegate stood up, red in the face, and began his rebuttal, “I’ll remind you, Mr. Representative, that the United States government preformed every standard test for brainwashing on the rogue agent Arnold Burr. _No evidence_ of brainwashing or other psychological programming was found. Burr was never left unsupervised, either, but he killed his overseers before perpetuating the leak, then killed himself before he could stand trial. The United States and its CIA did everything in their power to safeguard the international community, but we were outsmarted. This is the work of the ISIS terrorist organization, there is no doubt, and we as a united world, must stand up to this injustice, and see that revenge is procured!”

“And what reason have you for suspecting ISIS?” the Iranian delegate cried, standing up as well, “Or do Americans automatically assume that all attacks on them are perpetuated by Muslims?”

“That is not true in the slightest, Mr. Representative,” the American delegate said back, “Sometimes we blame the Chinese and the Russians, too.”

This venomous remark started another slew of arguing and ranting, and the Chairman had a hard time getting them to settle down. “ _Entschuldigen Sie_ ,” someone said behind them, and the Americans turned to see Ludwig Beilschmidt standing in behind them. “ _Willkommen_ , Americas,” he said curtly, “But personifications are meeting in the other conference room.”

“Right,” Alfred sighed, “Lead on, then.” They followed Ludwig back to the conference room, the one where they had spent so much time with that damned book, and found it in chaos. In one corner, India, Australia, and South Africa were arguing with each other about something. In another, the Middle Eastern nations were grouping around Palestine and Israel, who were in an all-out fistfight, and the rest of the world talked and argued amongst themselves, trying to discern what the future would hold. When the Americans walked in, however, everything stopped. Jett turned around from his conversation. Yosef released Palestine from his head lock. Gilbert held Matthew’s hand, looking for support. And from the crowd, Arthur Kirkland walked towards Alfred with murderous intent.

“YOU DUMB SON OF A BITCH!” he bellowed, rearing back his fist and socking Alfred right in the jaw. Massachusetts and Utah caught their father has he stumbled back in surprise. France, Spain, and Dixie all had to struggle to keep the Brit from attacking further, but as he strained against their grips, he shouted further, “DO YOU UNDERSTAND WHAT YOU’VE DONE!? THE _LIVES_ YOU’VE PUT IN DANGER!?”

“Arthur, _calm down!_ ” Francis cried, and finally the three of them managed to push Britain away from America. 

As the room devolved into more arguing and fighting, Alexander got fed up and jumped onto the table, bellowing, “ **QUIET!** ” Once again, the conference room fell silent. “Now I know you’re all scared, and angry,” he continued, “Hell, _I’m_ scared and angry. But fighting amongst ourselves won't solve a damn thing. If we’re gonna get through this, we need to be together. _All of us_.”

“Why should we listen to you, slavedriver?” South Africa protested, pointing an accusing finger up at the Southerner.

“I don’t wanna hear that from you of all people, _Apartheid_ ,” Alexander shot back, and some of the African nations _oohed_ in surprise and perhaps even a little respect. South Africa’s jaw clacked shut.

“You should listen to me, cause currently I’ve yet to hear anyone else say anything,” Alexander said to the rest of them, “And… I’ve got news from the front.”

“What type of news?” Netherlands asked from the back of the room.

“News ranging from disturbing, mysterious, to disturbingly mysterious,” Alfred said as he hopped up next to his brother, “First on the list: we have no idea how many ISIS sleeper agents there are out there. The reporter that grilled me on TV, that woman; she wasn’t an American, she was ISIS.”

“Oh _really?_ ” Palestine muttered, “And how are you so sure?”

“Well, ISIS is behind all of this,” Belgium said uncertainly, “Isn’t he?”

“Why is it that a Muslim must be responsible?” Syria demanded, “Why is it that we are always the objects of Western fear and anger?”

“Hey, remember that part where you tried to _wipe me from existence?_ ” Israel shot back, “I think we’re pretty justified in our suspicions of the Muslim World.”

“Your nation holds territory seized from _me_ in a colonial landgrab!” Palestine shouted, “Jerusalem is rightfully _mine!_ ”

“Tell me again, who was it that built Jerusalem, Salem,” Israel said impatiently, “Jews or Arabs?”

“I won it by _right of conquest!_ ” Salem shot back, and Yosef scoffed.

“Six Day War, pal. So did I,” he shot back, “Remember that? Three nations fell in only six days of war. Y’know why? Cause on the Seventh Day, I rested from kicking so much Arab ass. And, last I checked, _you_ didn’t claim anything. Aadil Ibn L’Amad did, but he's dead now, isn’t he?”

The world stood in shocked silence. When in the presence of a Muslim nation, it was the unspoken rule that the disappearance of Aadil Ibn L’Amamd, the Personification of Islam, was _never_ to be mentioned, let alone to flat out suggest that he’d _died_ . “ _Why you-!_ ” Palestine roared, leaping at the Israeli again, only for the two to be pulled apart by their respective factions, Yosef by India and Salem by Egypt.

“Come on, it’s not worth it,” Gupta said quietly, and Salem begrudgingly stood down, stewing in his anger.

“Count to ten, Yosef,” India advised, “Like we’ve practised.” Israel took a deep breath, then relaxed, still glaring at the offending Palestinian.

Alexander pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering, “Oh, for God’s sake, FINE! If you all want to act like children, keep going on ahead. Anyone who’s _serious_ about setting this right, meet me in the other room. We have things to discuss.” With that, the Southerner jumped from the table and stalked out of the room, gesturing for the rest of the Americans to follow him.

In a different conference room, slowly but surely different nations, some looking a little abashed and ashamed of themselves, shuffled in and decided to hear Alexander out. Noticing that two prominent faces were absent, Alexander stood at the front of the room. “Does anyone know where Yao and Ivan are?” he asked.

Arthur huffed an irritated sigh, saying, “Ivan’s been off the grid for the past two years. The last his government heard of him, he was sighted by some drunk farmers on the outskirts of Siberia. By the time Russian authorities moved in to investigate, he was gone and the farmers were too terrified to speak. Now we don’t know where he is other than ‘somewhere in Siberia’, where he is firmly under General Winter’s protection.”

Alexander nodded, suspecting as much, “And Yao?”

Kiku shifted his weight, looking at Taiwan. “According to my spies,” the Taiwanese personification said hesitantly, “After the press conference went sideways, Wang Yao was abducted from his home in Nanjing. Neighbors have been silenced, and the People’s Republic’s media is assuring the public that he is safe and taken care of, but there’s evidence of a violent struggle. Most likely scenario is he’s being held in a cell in the Forbidden City.”

Ben whistled lowly. “Damn,” he said, pulling up a satellite image of flooded streets in the center of Nanjing, “Old timer put up a hell of a fight. Wherever he is, he didn’t want to go.”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Alexander muttered under his breath, “Just what we need, two of our biggest players out of action. And we don’t have the time, the resources, or the publicity to try and spring Yao… I hate to say it, but he’s on his own.”

“It gets worse,” Kiku said sadly, “We’ve also lost contact with Leon. Hong Kong has erupted into the worst rioting since 2019, and the People’s Liberation Army threatens to move in more and more every day. China is becoming a battle ground. And even though most of the Ancients are safe in Feuerstelle, Romulus and Atlan are still missing in their search for Byzantium. We can only hope that they are safe.”

“What of the other nations in Chinese custody?” India asked, “Tibet, Uyghurstan, and Macau?”

“Macau is safe,” Portugal said in relief, “I just spoke to him. But Tibet and Uyghurstan… well, they’ve been missing for decades.”

“We have to act on the assumption that China has no reason to harm them, and pray that Leon hasn’t gotten himself into too much trouble,” Alexander sighed exasperatedly, “I’m afraid we just just have too many immediate issues to focus on the troubles in Asia.”

“And what are these immediate issues, Alexander?” Netherlands asked skeptically, blowing a puff of smoke from his pipe contemptuously.

Alexander sighed as he massaged the bridge of his nose again. “I’ve received two messages so far, seemingly from an alternate universe,” he said, “I know it sounds crazy, but we Americans have listened to it, and we can confirm that those voices aren’t ours. Well, they’re ours, just… we didn’t record them.” He pulled out the first tape, “This one tells of an alternate 1936, where Huey Long won the election after FDR succumbed to polio. As a result, the United States fall apart into a brutal and bloody second civil war. After hearing that first tape, I received this one,” he produced the second tape labelled _1118.2_ , “I have no idea what it says. I figured we’d all listen to it together.”

The assembled nations looked skeptical, but nonetheless they listened as Alexander pushed it into the cassette player.

“ _Hello?_ ” a staticky, panic-filled voice asked them from the tape, “ _If you can hear me, this is Sadik Adnan, Personification of the Ottoman Emp--_ ” the tape glitched out into static and what sounded suspiciously like gunfire and explosions. “Kahretsin!” the voice swore, “ _Look, I don’t have much time. If you’re hearing this, that means your world is next. You are being tested, by powers far beyond your understanding--”_ more static and gunfire, “ _\--My world failed the test. Many great nations, America, Austria and Hungary, China, France, Britain, now, even me. We have all fallen to sinister machinations of an ancient and malevolent force. It turned us against each other, made traitors out of some of our number, and brought Earth-1118 down in flames. They are planning something, something great and terrible to inflict upon all the earths. Worlds will live, worlds will die, and nothing will ever be the same again!--”_ more static, “ _\-- please, your crucible is approaching. There will be enemies, they will look like you, but they will not be you! They will be… what did Wilhelm call them…? Doppelgangers! There will be doppelgangers, but not all of them will be your enemy. Some will also be of victim worlds, and they will be lost. If you try, I’m sure they will assist you in your fight. We are also doing our best to aid you; right now, in Berlin, Wilhelm is fleeing to your world, he will try to help you, please, just… remember, if you wish to survive, you must stand together!_ ” 

On the recording, a great crash was heard, and there was a gasp of horror from the speaker, that world’s Ottoman Empire. “ _AT LONG LAST!”_ a different, younger voice cried in triumph, and Gupta blanched as he recognized his own voice, “ _Behold, people of Konstantiniyye! The Ottoman Empire, and its tyranny of the Arab World, has fallen before the combined might of the Cairo Pact!”_ Over the line, there was a scream, and the nations flinched at the unmistakable sound of a sword piercing through flesh, and of a body hitting the floor. The track skipped, and stopped.

“ _Mein Gott_ ,” Germany whispered, “They killed him.”

Turkey looked troubled. “Well, now we know they’re not faked,” he muttered, “Because I am very much alive, and I did _not_ record that.”

“Who is Wilhelm?” Luxembourg asked, “Their Germany?”

“I’d assume so,” Britain responded, “And if we’re to believe this is true, then their Francis, Alfred, Yao, Roderich, Elizabeta, and me are all dead.”

The nations stood in a shocked silence. They were still reeling from the day’s events, and now suddenly all new avenues of plots and secrecy were opening themselves up to them. Just then, Benjamin Jones, who’d been watching his phone like a hawk for any news, nearly fell out of his chair. “They found her!” he proclaimed.

“Found who?” Alexander demanded urgently.

“That reporter bitch!” Ben supplied, showing off the news article, “She offed herself in a hotel room last night after burning a whole lot of paper in the trash bin. Turns out she was a French national who moved to Syria and got swept up by ISIS recruiters. They must have put her up to framing Dad.”

“But wasn’t everything this woman said true, even if she had terrible motives?” India asked.

“Hey, who’s side’re you on?” Texas demanded of the Indian, hand drifting toward his pistol.

“I am on no one’s side,” India said plainly, “I do what I feel is right. And I feel we must look at all angles of this; ISIS has clearly stepped up its game. This is far out of the ordinary.”

“India’s, like, so totally right,” Poland agreed, “I’ve been doing my best to combat terrorism in, like, my own country. I sorta know how these guys think. This is, like, way off for ISIS. Usually, they want to draw blood to, like, draw attention. This is totally a whole new tactic.”

“Why such a radical shift?” Alexander mused, “And why now, when Russia and China are out of action?”

“That’s obvious!” Roberto laughed easily, and the whole host of nations and states turned to him. “What, you guys don’t get it?” he asked, then rolled his eyes and explained, “ISIS is obviously a solo act villain, right? He wants his final showdown with the West to be all dramatic and stuff, like a movie. Except, ISIS is a B-Lister, and he knows it, so he needs the A-List villains, Russia and China, out of the way. This way, we all have to focus our attention on him and him only. And, if I had to guess, he’s also stepped up his game with some sorta new tech or advisor; this is all basic Hollywood, people. Have you never seen an action film?”

“Then how do these cryptic messages fit into all this?” Vatican City asked, “Our world’s ‘test’? ‘Doppelgangers’? This Wilhelm man? When will they arrive, and how will they fit into all of this?”

“And don’t forget we all still have to keep ourselves safe from the public,” Netherlands stressed, “If the people riot, we will be in no position to retaliate.”

“So we’re fish in a barrel,” Ben summed up, “And ISIS has a nuke.”

Before the nations could devolve into more bickering and fighting, Alexander sighed forcefully, then massaged his nose again. “The best thing we can all do, is try to band together and ride out the public storm until Wilhelm arrives. After he gets here, we’ll have a better idea of what we’re working with, and how to combat it,” he said, and the nations began to leave. “Everyone!” Alexander called, and they all turned back, “Keep your guard up. We can’t rely on Wilhelm arriving before the crucible does. Stay on your toes, use the Red Line if anything goes sideways. We _will get through this_. And we’ll do it together.”

With that, they went back to the main UN meeting, determined to strike back against these otherworldly invaders.

"̷̝̑Ǫ̶͂ḥ̵̅,̵͚͝ ̷̬̉p̵̺̓o̵͕ó̵̭ȑ̵̞ ̵̙d̷͕̍e̸͔͒a̷̭̍r̴͉͘s̷̘̽,̵͕̓"̸̌ͅ ̷͓͝Ȏ̵̰l̸͓̂i̵̹͌v̸̙̈e̷͈̾r̸̦͘ ̴̬͑s̵̗̉i̷̘̊g̶̱͆h̸̠͛e̷̟͗d̷̬̾ ̶̥͊a̴̙͒s̵̛̟ ̴͚͘h̴͆͜e̴̢͠ ̴͉̽w̵̟̒a̷̗͗ț̸͆c̵͇̒h̴̝͛e̶̤͋d̶̖̽ ̴̬̏t̵̘͆ȟ̸̼ȩ̸͋m̸̘̓ ̶̬̈́s̷̪̓c̷̙͒r̷͓å̸̦m̴͎̔b̸̝͝l̶̳̄e̷͑ͅ ̸̟͊f̶͍̆ỏ̷̲ȑ̵̡ ̶͔͝c̷͗͜o̵̝̒v̵͎̅e̵̢̋r̵̫̃,̸͔̕ ̷̮̃"̵͕̉W̶̗̿e̴̡͘'̵̝̕v̸̲͋e̴̜͘ ̶̩̐p̸̫̊ų̸̏t̸̟͘ ̴̢̐ţ̶̓h̵̖͋ẻ̴̤m̵̲̾ ̶̗́r̷̘͋ų̸̓n̴̲̍n̵̯̏i̷̖̋n̷̢͗g̶͚̃ ̸̟̕s̷̪̽c̶̲͐ḁ̸̿r̴̳͊e̴̪̓ḋ̸̢!̴͇͛"̷̜͝ ̴͇̂Ț̷͋h̴̩̒e̵̫n̴͍̈́ ̶̙̈h̵͖̚ȩ̶͠ ̵̙̈́f̷̧͊ę̵̑l̶̟̉t̴̤ ̶͖͋ă̸̹ ̶̰̊r̴͖̋o̶͎̎ŭ̸͓g̶̿ͅh̸͈̚ ̷̩̍h̵̲̓a̶̛̩ṉ̸͒ḋ̵̻ ̸̬̐s̷͔͊ḷ̷̏a̸̠̽p̸̭̆ ̵̛̤h̵͈̿i̴̼̎s̷͓̾ ̶̰͒b̴̥͝u̶̬͒t̶̥̿t̸̟̍,̶̮̅ ̸̼̍ạ̵̚n̸̲̔ḑ̶͂ ̶͙̾t̸̖u̶͓̒r̸̭̎n̶̤̏e̸͔̚d̴̻̂ ̵͇̑t̸̮̉o̵̱͋ ̵̜̎s̵̮̊ẽ̶̹e̸̥͛ ̶̻̕t̴̖̀h̴͈e̴̱̕ ̵̖̄p̵̻̿o̸̰͝ẁ̸̘ė̸͎r̸̝̅f̷͈͑ṳ̴̎l̴̻͘ ̴̨m̸̱̎å̷̳ṅ̷͕ ̶̟̚w̷̨̕i̶̭͒t̸̯̒h̴̟͝ ̵͙̒t̷̪̆h̴̢̑e̵̳̋ ̷̪͐b̵͕̽ȏ̸̥m̴̮b̶̩͆ë̶͚́r̷̞͊ ̷̥̆j̵̾͜a̷̻͘c̶̡͝k̷͙̕e̴͍̾ṭ̶ ̷̠̔a̸̼̔n̶̢̈́ḑ̷̀ ̵̘̂d̷̩͑a̸̙̎ŗ̷̛ǩ̶̥ ̴̰̀r̸͔͘e̸̟̎d̴̝̏ ̴̤̽ȟ̶̗a̵̰̽i̶̩̔r̸̪̓ ̸̼̕t̸̜́h̵̻͝a̷̛ͅt̴͆ͅ ̵̼̎h̴̞͒e̸̡̚ ̷̳̋f̸̡̍ö̷̩́u̸͌ͅn̴̬̎ď̸͇ ̶̦̚q̶̥͂ü̸͎ḯ̵̳t̶̗̽e̶̯̋ ̷̺̒â̸ͅt̶͈͋t̵̩͂r̵̖̒a̴͎c̸̤̐t̴̥̓i̵̭̒v̷̱̈́e̴̛̙.̸̩̕

̷̩̋"̶̈́ͅD̷̺̚ò̴͍n̸̰̄'̸̉͜ẗ̶̥́ ̷̮̿w̸͈͌o̴̲r̸̡̐ř̵̯y̶̯̑,̴͍̑ ̸͕͑P̴̳̎ṛ̸̈́i̴͇͌n̵͖̏ć̶̼ė̸ͅs̶̢s̴͔̾ ̵̫͌B̵̬̌ủ̷̺b̸͕̓b̸͇̈́l̴͚̃e̶̠̚g̷̨͋u̵̼͝m̷̦̄,̴͖̿"̵͍͋ ̸̂ͅA̶͇l̷̛̤l̸̲͋e̶̢n̸̻͑ ̶̣͠J̷̢͐ơ̵̱n̵̫̑ḛ̴̓s̴͔͠ ̸̡͘s̸̟̓a̵̯i̷͈͘d̶͎,̴̠̈́ ̸͐ͅṣ̶̀m̶̲̿i̷̮͆l̵̞̾i̸̫̚ň̷̫g̶̗̿ ̶̛̮a̸̧͂s̷̱ ̴̮̄h̶̻͛ḙ̵̽ ̷͚͌ȓ̴͇ḛ̷̉s̸͇t̴͇͐é̵̞d̵̳̓ ̶̳̚ȟ̸͉ȉ̶̥s̸̱̋ ̸̼̎r̵̳̍a̶̠͌ţ̴͑ ̴̝͝s̸̯͗t̶̙̂i̸̘͊c̴̐ͅk̷͓̋ ̵̫o̶̧͠ǹ̶͎ ̵̤̐ḥ̸͌ì̵̯s̴̪̓ ̴̜̋s̶̩h̷͖͂o̸̳͘u̷̼̔l̵̹̾ḏ̴̚è̷̲r̶͚̈́,̴̫͋ ̶͖͋"̵͓͐A̸̢̒l̷̜͗ļ̴̈́ ̸̹̏á̵̫c̵̻̃c̸̭͠o̵͖̓r̶̠͘ḋ̸̺i̶̥̎n̷͇̆g̷̣̔ ̴͓̓t̴̢̛o̸̪̎ ̵͘͜p̵̲̃l̸̦͐ȧ̴̳n̶͍̎.̸̧̎ ̵̤͠T̴̛͍ẖ̵̚ĕ̸̩y̸̧͑'̵̧̾l̵̠̄l̵̲̅ ̴͍̇b̷̹̋ė̷̺ ̵̟̈o̴͙̾u̶̧͒r̸̠͆s̵̺̃ ̵͓̏b̴̙̈́e̸̬͐f̷̜̕o̶̜͌r̴̯̈́e̷̡̚ ̵̹̂y̴̦̕o̶̭̓u̶̢͒ ̷̯k̷̯̈́n̸̗̈́o̴̮̔w̵̧̐ ̷̐͜ȋ̷̜t̴̺͘.̶̝̒"̶̯̎

̸̦͆"̷͊ͅA̴̭̔n̵̝̐ď̵͎ ̶̢̂ị̴͌f̴̛̗ ̶̜̿W̵̖͆i̶̜̽l̷̼̇h̶͕̉ẽ̸͜l̴͉̓m̴̥͠ ̴̖̓ḍ̶̄ô̶̙e̴̛̦s̶͕͋ ̴̅ͅr̶͓̕ȇ̸͔a̵̳͝c̶̬̐h̶͙̽ ̴͚̽ẗ̴͓́h̷͍̽ë̴̺m̴̜̆ ̴͊ͅí̵͖n̴̩͂ ̶̪͆t̴̬͐i̵͈̚m̶̼̅e̴̡͂?̴̛̳"̸͗ͅ ̷̫̂W̶̥̔i̶̠̔l̵̨͊l̷̟͑i̴̗͆â̸̼m̵̫ ̷̳͝á̵͙s̸͚͊k̵̜͠ḙ̴̌d̵̯͊,̷̫̾ ̷͓̊b̶̘͗r̶̗͌ṷ̴͝s̸͖̾ḩ̷͘ï̷̤n̷̰̿g̴̛̞ ̶̬̌o̶͎̾f̸̫̏f̵̣̈́ ̵̨̍h̸͍̿i̸̢͘ș̴͒ ̴̣̚s̸͚͆l̴̫̍e̶̙͊e̸̲͛k̶̭̏ ̸̹̊g̴̢̊ȑ̶̙a̴̟͂ÿ̷́͜ ̶̰̾ṳ̶͛n̴͉̅ị̷̎f̸̳̌ő̵͇r̴͎͊m̴͚͠,̷͙͘ ̸̝̓"̸͚̑Õ̵͙r̵̭̿ ̶̲̿K̶͎͂̿ľ̵̚ͅa̷̢̗̾u̶͔̿̌s̷̖̋̌?̸̞͛ ̸͉͌O̷̢͠r̷̕͜ ̷̬͐a̵̳̾n̴̙̄y̴̭̔ ̶̟̅ő̴̝f̵͔̂ ̸̩̿t̸̎ͅh̶̯͛ȅ̶̱ ̴͔͐o̷̳͊t̵̜̂ẖ̴͋e̷̙̓ṟ̸͐ ̶̉͜r̸͕͊o̵͍͌g̸̻͂u̵͚̿ě̵̞ş̸̅?̴̝̈́"̵̛̺

̸̧͝"̷͍͝I̴͚̕'̵̺͠l̵͎̀l̸͕͊ ̸͈t̵̰͑a̶̝͠k̸͙̋e̶̝̓ ̵̳́c̷̹͂ạ̸̊r̷͕͋e̶͉͊ ̸̛̼ö̴̘́f̶͎̓ ̶̒͜i̷͍t̸̻̋,̴̣̂"̵̦̃ ̸̹̏A̵͖̔l̴̗̒l̷̥̎ȅ̵͕n̵̛̯ ̷̭̑a̵͔̓s̸̗̔s̸̲͝ụ̷̅r̷̹͋e̸͇̓d̵̡̓ ̵̧͑ḩ̶̓i̷̼͂m̷̩͗,̵̰̚ ̶̮͠"̸͙̋W̸̛̝e̶̜'̶͈̈v̴͚͝e̶̳̾ ̶̩̑g̴̩̚o̴͔͠t̸͈̓ ̶̖͒i̵̺̽ț̸̕ ̵̧̐u̸̬̓n̷̲̐d̵̛̹e̵̠͗r̷̘̿ ̷̜̋c̵̦͊o̸̳͒n̸̻̈́t̷̨͝r̵̛̠o̶̮͆l̷̩͐.̴̧̕ ̵̞̎T̷͓̅h̷̰͆e̸̛̹y̸̮̎'̶̗̄ŗ̴̍e̶̫̎ ̴̯͗w̸̗̍e̸̮̕a̷̺̎k̴̗͘.̴̨͑ ̷̠͗A̷̡̓n̸̮͋d̸̬͛ ̷̻̊m̸̪͒ö̶̻r̷͖̿t̵̗͑a̸͍͌l̴̩̎.̵̳̃ ̸̺̽W̷̥̊e̴̟͠ ̴͉͌č̵̦a̶̪̕ņ̸̐'̴̟̈́ṫ̷̨ ̷̮́l̷̨͂o̸̙̍s̷͇͠e̵̙͠.̴̱͝"̸̡̈́

̶͕̆"̷̨͂Ã̶ͅn̶̼͛d̵̰͆ ̷̙̋w̶̪̄h̸̦̄y̷͕̅ ̵͈͋i̷̡̊s̵̠͂ ̷͈̌ṯ̵̑h̵͈͑ä̸́ͅt̵̯̿?̵͎͊"̷̬͐ ̶̦͒J̸̓͜a̴̾ͅc̶̹͐q̸͔̄u̴͈̽e̷̞̾s̷̺̋ ̷͔̿ã̷͉s̶̗͠k̶̦̈e̶̛̖ď̵̘,̸̬̕ ̸̎ͅr̵̳a̶̤̒i̷̠s̷̩̒i̵̻͗n̷̪͝g̵͇̑ ̵̹͝a̶̺̿ņ̵͐ ̷̱͋e̴̢̿ỳ̵̜e̵̻͗b̵̬̀ṛ̶̑o̶̖͠w̴̠.̷̝̈́

̴̨̛"̸͙B̶̻͗e̵̟̍c̵̢͑ạ̴̅ù̵͜s̵̼e̴̯̕,̵͚̑"̸̢̄ ̶͚͝A̴͓͂l̶̛̪l̵͕̾e̴̹͋ṅ̴̬ ̴̜̆ǵ̷̤r̶̛̠ị̷̊n̵̗̓ņ̶̿ḛ̴̀d̷̢͂,̷̝̆ ̷̬͝p̶̥̚u̶̡͑l̶̟̿l̷̦̇i̴͙̾ṅ̵̨g̶̯͘ ̵̙̈O̴̧̕l̶̬̏ȋ̶̢v̴̥̍ė̵̺r̸̹̔ ̷͑ͅi̷̫͠ṅ̸͜ť̶̗o̵̞̔ ̴̉͜h̸̺͂i̵̘̎s̵̻͠ ̶̦̂à̷̧r̷̜̋m̴̟̊s̸̘͘,̸͈́ ̷̩̒"̵̳̂I̶͎͗'̶͕̀m̸̮͐ ̷̯͑G̷͉͗ȍ̶̢d̵̲͌.̵̞͛"̵̟̂

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MY GOD THIS TOOK A LONG TIME
> 
> But hey, we've finally gotten to the official 2Ps! And political intrigue! And other characters! Look at all those characters I couldn't include in Redemption!
> 
> See y'all next week!


	10. The Rabbit Hole

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The little girl just could not sleep because her thoughts were way too deep, her mind had gone out for a stroll and fallen down the rabbit hole"  
> -Lewis Carroll, "Alice in Wonderland"

The next day, the nations did the only thing they could: they went home. They sheltered in their houses and estates, trying to ride out the storm that was currently sweeping the world. Across the globe, humans were freaking out that suddenly, there were immortals among them. Some preached coexistence, while others claimed that nothing had really changed. Others, however, had a louder voice, and those loud few ranted and raved about how the immortals would rip up the roots of civilization, that they were too dangerous to be left in the open, and some even calling for their imprisonment. And of course, there was also a third point of view, a scientific one, calling for the nations to be studied and tested; perhaps in their DNA was the secret to human immortality, or the cure to cancer. Most of it was scholarly and ethical debate, but there were enough crazies in the scientific community to warrant… worry. All these thoughts and more were racing through Ben Jones’s head as he nonchalantly strolled through the halls of Unity Hill, munching on a Boston Creme donut. It wasn’t like the real stuff you could get from bakeries in Boston, but for a West Virginia Dunkin, he guessed it was alright.

Ben scrolled through news headlines on his phone, frowning a little more as he read each one. Riots in San Diego. An inquiry at the CIA. A conference in Baghdad of all the major Arab nations, with an obvious goal in mind: Israel. Diplomatic pressure on Beijing from Tokyo and Washington on the whereabouts of Wang Yao. Claims from British tabloids that Arthur was the one to trigger Brexit. Laughing a little, Ben even came across a Japanese manga artist, Hidekaz Himaruya, that had taken the idea of nations in a more lighthearted direction: a manga series called Hetalia, meant to satirize history. The name itself was a pun on the Japanese words for “useless” and “Italy”. Ben looked at a few pages, then after discovering it was little more than softcore gay porn, promptly left it alone, hoping that it never gained popularity.

Finally, Ben arrived at the door he was looking for: Noah’s room. Finishing his donut, he brushed off his hands and pocketed his phone, then knocked on the door. “Yo, Noah, it’s Ben,” he called, “I’ve got something that might interest ya.”

Ben’s eyebrow quirked up as he heard muffled cursing, then a series of bangs and thumps as Noah presumably flailed about the room, trying to make himself presentable. All the while, Ben heard a suspicious amount of giggling from an unknown source. Finally, the door opened, but only just enough for Noah to poke his head out. Ben’s eyebrow crept further up his head as he noticed Noah’s crooked hat, rumpled clothes, and missing poncho. “Ben, howdy,” Noah said breathlessly, straightening his hat, “What can I do for you?”

“What’s going on in there?” Ben asked, his curiosity piqued.

“Nothing,” Noah said too quickly, his face turning red, “I was doing something.”

“I’m Something,” a voice said behind him, and the door opened further to reveal Tennessee, wrapped in Noah’s poncho and looking quite pleased with himself, if a little sore. Poor Noah turned red as a beet, trying to hide under his hat.

Ben only rolled his eyes, saying, “I should have known. Come on, Cowboy, I’ve got something to show ya.” With that, he grabbed Noah by the shirt and pulled him further into the Texan’s room, James shutting the door behind them.

“Uh, Ben, not that I don’t appreciate your dropping by,” Noah sighed, a little flustered, “But I really was in the middle of something-”

“The lower abdomen, to be precise,” James supplemented, taking immense pleasure in the way Noah nearly fainted.

Ben shook his head, trying to dispel that particular image from it. “Alright, enough!” he said exasperatedly, “I don’t wanna know about whatever wicked gay sex the two’s of ya’s been up to. This is  _ important _ .”

“Fine, Ben, fine,” Noah sighed in response, “What is it?”

Ben grinned triumphantly, the same way he did when Washington kicked the British out of Boston. “As you two may’ve noticed, I’ve been on my phone most of the day, right?” he asked.

Noah rolled his eyes, “Yes, you’re glued to that thing. It’s not healthy.”

“Well, I was doing some digging, real  _ NCIS _ ,  _ CSI _ ,  _ Criminal Minds _ , type-stuff,” Ben went on, barely hearing him, “And I’ve found some wicked-cool stuff. Take a look!” He pulled out his phone and loaded up the first bio.

“And this is…?” James asked, his eyes glazing over at the sheer volume of info on Ben’s tiny screen.

“Amanda Chiarenza, a leading theoretical physicist specializing in the Multiverse Theory,” Ben said eagerly, “And this next one here is Alexei Binkov, a master of robotics and design. And this guy here, he’s Henry Williams, a master historian and respected cultural archaeologist.”

“And this is important because…?” Noah asked, filing the names away for future reference.

“Well, that Williams character is actually pretty interesting on his own, rumor has it he’s the illegitimate son of Indiana Jones, but that’s not the important part,” Ben said, scrolling through to find the next picture, “This, is what I needed to show you.” He held up the picture, and Noah’s eyes widened.

“The reporter bitch,” he said, recognizing her from the broadcast.

“Mhm,” Ben agreed, “Her name’s Amelie Lacroix. Poor bitch lost her husband Gerard in a car accident before her life went to Chelsea. Gerard was the more famous name in the science community, but apparently it was a Marie and Pierre situation, cause Old Doc Lacroix told her everything he knew, and it painted a target on her back. She’s probably the world’s leading authority on an experimental new power source called the Arc Reactor.”

“What’s the connection?” Noah asked, “Lacroix, Williams, Chiarenza, Binkov; they’re all scientists, but their fields don’t match up. Why are they important?”

“The connection, Lone Ranger, is that they’ve all gone missing,” Ben said, and Noah and James looked at each other, “Each one of these people was approached by ISIS recruiters over the past six months, and since then they’ve been found in various international security agencies, trying to release or gain sensitive information. Reports say they were totally brainwashed, same as our old friend Agent Burr, and that if they were successful in their missions, well… it wasn’t pretty.” Ben showed them an image of Alexei Binkov swinging from a noose in a cheap hotel room.

“So you think that they’ve been working with ISIS?” Noah asked, his Texas Ranger instincts kicking in, “Good thinking. But what’s the motive? ISIS has never had a need for theoretical physicists and cultural archaeologists before. Last I checked, they were in the business of destroying knowledge, not preserving it.”

“I thought about that, too,” Ben said excitedly, “Then I thought about what Roberto said at the meeting: ISIS is stepping up his game. And what do you get when you combine theoretical physics, The Multiverse Theory, a master robotics engineer, an experimental power source, and the illegitimate son of the late great Dr. Henry ‘Indiana’ Jones, Jr?”

“Science fiction,” Noah said.

“Noah, James,” Ben said seriously, “What if Multiverse Theory isn’t a theory? What if the people who recorded those tapes have travelled from their universe to  _ ours? _ What if ISIS built a Multiverse Machine?”

“Okay, if he  _ did _ , we wouldn’t call it ‘The Multiverse Machine’,” James said wryly, “That’s way too corny.”

“I’m  _ serious! _ ” Ben hissed, “What if we’re not alone? What if there are other versions of us, one that lived through different histories? What if ISIS picked out all the evillest ones and decided to turn them loose in our reality?”

“Then there’s only one thing we can do,” Noah said eventually, “We need to find this Multiverse Machine-- and we need to shut it down.”

* * *

Unbeknownst to the Jones Family, there was one extra visitor at Unity Hill that night. In the woods outside the property, expertly tiptoeing around the state-of-the-art security system as a tall, handsome blonde man in what was once a fine military uniform, now splattered with mud, torn at the shoulder, and showing other signs of rough transit. Picking the lock to the manor’s main foyer, the man stumbled inside, totally exhausted from his cross-country trek. Barely able to stand anymore, let alone climb the stairs, the man simply collapsed onto the floor there and then, vaguely hoping they wouldn’t shoot him on sight, and praying he wasn’t too late. The Doppelgangers were coming, and without the help of Wilhelm Beilschmidt, they had a slim chance of stopping them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, sorry, I took the weekend off for the holiday (USA! USA! USA!) Things should be back to normal, but no promises. Have fun with everyone's favorite paranoid Bostonian, Ben Jones, and the fun cameos I sprinkled in there for fun. Oh, and the closest you'll ever get to a Texassee sex scene.


	11. New Arrival

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Germans are very good at doing things, but not very good at preventing them."  
> -Charles de Gaule

Alan yawned as he rolled into a sitting position, his alarm clock blaring at him angrily. Swatting the button to make it stop, Alan sighed as he read the ever-disheartening “4:30 AM” flashing red on the clock’s surface, then forced himself to stand up and start his day. First, his perfectly pressed pinstripe suit pants, followed up by a pristine white button-down and matching jacket. Throwing on a black tie and adding a black fedora, Alan walked out the door of his room, pocketing his trusty brass knuckles as he did. As he looked out the front window of Unity Hill, the beginnings of dawn were just beginning to lighten the sky, and Alan looked down at his watch. 5 am. His first call for the World Trade Center was at 5:30, so he needed his coffee now if he wanted to be ready. 

Stumbling down the stairs in a daze, Alan easily stepped over the man on the floor and went to get his coffee. Pouring himself a generous mug, he downed a few gulps, savoring the bitter taste, then took a deep breath. In a life as busy as his, it was important to savor those little quiet moments, before work started, before even the day itself started. These were the moments he came Upstate for; the moments when the City that Never Sleeps was allowed to take a rest. Albany, Buffalo, Saratoga, Syracuse, they all had these quiet moments, every day, and Alan loved it. But it wasn’t to last forever. Rolling his shoulders, Alan walked back down the hall toward his office, then for the first time noticed the man sleeping on the floor. Sighing resignedly, New York took another long draught of his coffee, then messaged his assistant to cancel his calls for the day. With that done, Alan looked down at his watch, seeing it was only 5:15, then set a fifteen minute timer on his phone. Whoever Floor Guy was, he could wait. Alan sat down on the couch, tipped his fedora over his eyes, and fell asleep, his coffee still in his hand.

_ Wilhelm wept as Italy was torn to pieces, thrown into disarray by warlords and extremist ideologies. He watched as France and Britain, men he had disliked but respected, were humiliated and insulted, pushed to the edge until they could take no more, turning to the evil of Syndicalism for their resurgence to glory. He watched as Canada and Algeria, colonies without the experience to govern a global power, tried to find their footing in the world, upholding the ideals their masters had given to them. He had stood by and watched as Savoy was overrun, unwilling to risk war to help poor Switzerland, who cursed him and swore revenge for such an injustice. He wept as Austria-Hungary fell into civil war, and he held Roderich in his arms as Vienna burned around them, comforting his brother as he died. He watched in shock as the United States fell apart, and had to turn his eyes away as Douglas MacArthur was burned at the stake in Salt Lake City. He couldn’t even bear to watch when they hung Alfred Jones. All he heard over the radio was Alfred’s final words, the snap of his neck, and the cheer of the crowd. _

_ Then war struck. The war he’d been trying to prevent for forever, ever since the merciful end of the dreaded Weltkrieg, had struck him. Wilhelm had closed his eyes, praying for anything but another war, but no matter what he did, the guns resumed their fire, and Europe erupted into war once more. _

Wilhelm jumped as he was woken from his dream by a shiny black dress shoe nudging his face. “Rise and shine, Floor Guy,” the young voice said above him, “Let’s hear how you got in.”

Wilhelm then remembered exactly where he was, and bolted to his feet, preparing himself to fight if he needed to. Breathing hard from the adrenaline rush, he looked down at the sharply-dressed teen in front of him, from his cup of coffee to his annoyed, expectant expression. “My name is Wilhelm Beilschmidt,” he said uncertainly, “I have a warning for this world’s Nations.”

The teen only sighed and rubbed his eyes, muttering, “Of course you are. Well, pretty much no one’s awake yet, so how about I make you some coffee, Wilhelm.” 

Wilhelm began to salivate at the thought of a hot cup of coffee, and he gladly followed the teen into the kitchen of the grand house. “If I may ask…” Wilhelm began uncertainly, “Who are you? And where exactly am I?”

The teen rolled his eyes. “Name’s Alan, Alan Jones. Personification of the Great State of New York,” he said as he heated up a fresh pot, “As for where you are, this is Unity Hill, USA. Though I think it’s a very different USA from what you know.”

Wilhelm shifted uncomfortably, “ _ Ja. _ ” He had had Einstein do some cursory research of the world he was sent to, so that he wasn’t completely lost, and had managed to track down this world’s America. It seemed America in this timeline hadn’t collapsed in 1936, and had even risen to become a major power.

“Here,” Alan said, interrupting Wilhelm’s thoughts, “Coffee’s ready.”

“ _ Danke schön, _ ” Wilhelm said gratefully, taking a long gulp of the gloriously hot liquid, feeling it spread warmth throughout his weary body.

“Alright, Roberto gave us the lowdown on you 2P guys,” Alan said wearily, sounding more resigned and annoyed than anyone Wilhelm had ever heard, “And you’re gonna have to tell your story once everybody wakes up, and I don’t want you to have to tell it a thousand times. So, I figure, I’ll just tell you about this world, so you know what you’ve stumbled into.”

Wilhelm looked at the teen strangely. “2...P…?” he asked eventually.

Alan sighed and waved his hand, “You know, ‘Second Player’, ‘2P’. Like an old video game. Roberto came up with the name.”

Wilhelm nodded, still not understanding. “You are… a very strange person,” he said eventually.

Alan grinned mischievously, “I get that a lot.”

And so they talked. And talked. And talked. For hours on end, Alan and Wilhelm discussed the history of the world, and the more Wilhelm grew to like the young New Yorker. He could be uncouth, rude, and perhaps even a little surly, but he was excellent company, and a captivating conversationalist. “And Britain  _ really  _ left the European Union?” Wilhelm asked incredulously after they’d been talking for a while, “And there was no war, nothing?”

Alan scratched his chin thoughtfully as the early morning sun filtered through the windows, “Well, Scotland was pretty mad at him, but nothing major happened, no.”

Wilhelm shook his head disbelievingly, “And I can’t believe the Soviet Union just  _ collapsed  _ like that. It seems anticlimactic to me.”

“Yeah, I was kinda looking forward to a showdown between Russia and Dad,” Alan admitted, “Minus the nuclear armageddon, of course.”

“Yes, I’ve seen the destructive power of nuclear weapons,” Wilhelm shivered, “In my world, the Internationale completed the Damocles Project, and dropped the first bomb,  _ Boudica _ , on the city of Dusseldorf, and the second,  _ Vercingetorix _ , on Frankfurt. From what I heard, Berlin was next when I escaped.”

Alan raised his mug of coffee solemnly. “To the dead of Dusseldorf and Frankfurt,” he said in toast.

Wilhelm toasted as well, saying, “ _ Ja, und für das Kaiserreich. _ ” After they completed their toast and drank the last of their coffee, Wilhelm heard something hit the floor, and jumped as he turned toward the hall, only to see most of the Jones Family staring at him, California’s phone having dropped from his hand in shock.

“Umm…  _ guten morgen? _ ” he said hesitantly, smiling uncertainly.

Alexander only sighed and rubbed his eyes, pouring himself a cup of coffee and sitting next to Wilhelm and Alan. “Alright,” the Southerner said resignedly, “Let’s hear it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, yeah, I know, I know, this is pretty late, but I had a really hard time with what to right with this. I thought, "Great, Wilhelm's reached Unity Hill!! ... ... oh, shit, now what?" It was very frustrating. However, next week look forward to Wilhelm's backstory, and new developments in places that aren't just America! Peace!


	12. Weltkrieg/Unwelcome Visitor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "History shows us that people who end up changing the world are always nuts, until they are right, and then they are geniuses."  
> -John Eliot

“Well, let us start at the beginning then,  _ ja? _ ” Wilhelm sighed, “From what my scientists gathered, the major difference between this world and mine is that in this world, the Entente won the Erster Weltkrieg. In my world, it is the opposite: the Central Powers were victorious. To maintain order in Europe, and to ensure that no war so destructive as the Weltkrieg ever raged again, I created the Reichspakt, an alliance between most of the nations of Central Europe to ward off attacks from other major powers. But the old Entente, humiliated by their loss, turned to… darker paths. Russia, France, and Britain all fell into civil wars, and eventually, the evils of Syndicalism spread to each of them. Russia was luckier than most, although Tsar Nicholas and his family lost their lives, the White Army won the war and restored peace in Russia… for a moment. France and Britain, meanwhile, ousted their previous governments and set about creating Syndicalist states, ruled by trade unions and ‘the will of the people.’ Too quickly they dissolved into chaotic power vacuums that dozens of strongmen tried to fill. Only one iea was constant in either nation: the desire to spread the Revolution to the rest of the world. Russia, meanwhile, moved back toward monarchy, only they were not united against Syndicalism… they were united against me.”

“How so?” Alexander interjected, and Wilhelm sighed unhappily.

“The new Tsar, Kyrill, rose to prominence in Russia on a platform of anti-Germanism,” he explained, “After the signing of the Treaty of Brest-Litovsk, and my smuggling of Vladimir Lenin into Petrograd to cause the civil war, the Russian people were far, far from forgiveness, nor were they willing to unite against the spread of Syndicalism. Eventually, they forced my hand. Russia invaded the Ukraine, and as a member of the Reichspakt, Ukraine sought help from the Kaiser and his allies, which we were forced to oblige. I went to war with Russia, and the Internationale had taken that as an opportunity to wipe the Kaiserreich from the earth.”

Then, Wilhelm brought out a map of his Europe, that had been in a small messenger bag that he had received from the war hero Adolf Hitler, ang began to demonstrate with his finger how the war had progressed.

“To circumvent the might of the Tirpitz Line, the Commune of France, and its allies in Britain and Tuscany, invaded through the Lowlands,” he said, swiping his finger across the Benelux Region, “I needed to respond in order to help my allies in the Netherlands and Flanders-Wallonia, and then the Internationale and the Reichspakt were at war. The remnants of the old Entente, headed by Canada and Algeria, decided to enter the war as well, trying to reclaim the homelands of their British and French exiles, and in a move I certainly didn’t expect, they offered to become my allies. The Reichspakt and the Entente, once the bitterest of enemies, were united by the Toronto Conference, and under the watchful eye of Erwin Rommel, the Supreme Commander of the Allied Forces, the war began anew to stem the flow of the Red Tide. Using forward bases in Greenland and Denmark, Canadian troops prepared for an invasion of Scotland, and Algerian troops crossed the Strait of Sicily to assist in the Italian Front. The two-front war was hard, and my economy was strained, but with the help of economic aid from New England and the Pacific States, we were holding on. We had just won the First Battle of Konigsberg when… the different ones arrived.”

Alfred now looked interested as he sat down next to his brother, scooting in the chair. “‘Different ones’?” he asked, “What do you mean ‘different’?”

Wilhelm shuddered. “They looked like us, but… they weren’t us. They were… they were different. Albert Einstein, the Kaiser’s leading scientist, called them ‘Doppelgangers’, and he explained to us that he believed they had travelled to our world from many different ones,” Wilhelm’s hand shook, then he continued, “The Kaiser told him to investigate. Einstein returned several months later with a map, and a machine. The map was a rough sketch of what he called the ‘Multiverse’, and the machine could supposedly travel through it.”

Ben snapped his fingers, then cried, “The Multiverse Machine!!” Then everyone stared at him, and he quickly backpedalled, “Uh, nothing. Stuff for later. Keep going.”

Wilhelm turned back to his story, “It was during these crucial months that the disasters were striking. The Doppelgangers asserted their control over their home countries, and were wreaking havoc on my world. A different Egypt, one that rallied the Arab World against my old friend Sadik, and killed the poor old man. A different Mongolia, one that used the chaos in China to reclaim the lost glory of Genghis Khan. A different Columbia that took it upon herself to fulfill the dream of Simon Bolivar, and began conquering South America under the banner of Gran Columbia. And… hundreds of new African personifications that ripped apart my son, Mittelafrika, and sent Africa spiralling into a bloody civil war.” 

Wilhelm had to stop for a moment, choked up at the memory, and New York patted his back. “ _ Danke _ ,” he said to the state, then took a deep breath, “The point is, France, Britain, and Russia suddenly got much, much better at waging war, and the Damocles Project was finished far earlier than my spies in Paris led me to believe. Soon, Russian troops were marching into Konigsberg, Frankfurt and Dusseldorf had been levelled by atomic blasts, and Internationale troops were advancing on Hanover. Everything had fallen apart so quickly… and we were sure it was because of these doppelgangers.”

“So how did you get here?” California asked from the back of the group.

Wilhelm pursed his lips, “Well, I shared Einstein’s findings with my allies in the Entente, and we came to a decision. Matt and I would journey into the Multiverse to try and recruit help from other worlds, and yours was chosen as the best candidate. Algeria was to stay behind and carry on the war effort, ready for our return with reinforcements. But when Einstein sent us over… something went wrong. Something, some force, intervened in the transit, and Matt and I were separated. Einstein’s Machine, which was supposed to transport us both to your Washington, DC, malfunctioned, and we were all separated across this world’s spacetime. The difference should’ve only been by about a few months each, but I’ve yet to track down Matt, and the Machine… well, it landed here much earlier than I did.”

“Don’t tell me: it landed in the Middle East,” Texas sighed, “Right into ISIS’s hands.”

Wilhelm nodded forlornly. “I am truly sorry,” he said, “But I fear I have brought war to your world.”

Alexander scratched at his beard, “Then it was you who sent me those tapes?”

“Tapes?” Wilhelm asked, genuinely confused, “I didn’t send any tapes. What do you mean?”

“I was sent a bunch of tapes detailing the events of your timeline!” Alexander insisted, “That’s how we knew to be ready for you!”

Wilhelm furrowed his brow, “I assure you,  _ Herr Alexander _ , I sent you no tapes.”

“But… if  _ you _ didn’t record those tapes…” Alfred asked slowly, looking at his brother, “Who did?”

* * *

Arthur sighed as he finally returned to his home in Birmingham after such a long day. As he approached the front step, Arthur stopped dead in his tracks as he saw that his door was slightly ajar. Summoning a small pistol and a torch, Arthur crept toward the door, nudging it open. The house was totally dark, save for one room at the back: his seldom-used kitchen. And from the smell, something sweet was in the oven. Slowly, Arthur clicked off the torch and crept toward the kitchen, then whipped around the corner, only to point his gun at… Scotland, gagged and bound to a chair, struggling against his bonds. “Allistor?” he gasped, moving to untie his brother, “Who’s done this?”

Allistor tried to tell him something, but he couldn’t speak around the gag. “Hold on, Allistor, I’ll have you out in a moment,” Arthur said, working on the ropes at his left wrist, but Scotland finally spat the gag out of his mouth.

“Behind you!” he cried, and Arthur whirled around to face… himself. A horrifying, perverted, twisted version of himself. Mismatched green and pink eyes, candy-floss pink hair, a pink sweater-vest over a green shirt, and a sickly-sweet smile on his lips.

“Arthur!” Not-Arthur said with such an overwhelming tone of fake joy it made real Arthur want to gag, “So good of you to join us! I was just about to pull the cupcakes out of the oven for sweet  _ widdle Allie-cat  _ here, but there’s plenty enough for you, too! I hope you like  _ arsenic _ .”

“Who are you!?” Arthur demanded, and his double smiled sweetly again.

“My name’s Oliver!” he said joyfully, “And I’m here to teach you a  _ lesson. _ ” With that, Oliver jumped Arthur with a frying pan, scored a lucky hit, and Arthur crumpled like a rag doll.

“Artie!” Allistor cried, and Oliver smiled as he straddled the Scotsman’s hips.

“Oh, come now, dearie, Artie can’t hear you! He’s unconscious!” he said patronizingly, as if speaking to a small child who didn’t understand the concept, “And now that I have him, I’m afraid you’re no good to me.”

Allistor grimaced and tried to back away from the psycho’s face, but Oliver only smiled as he slowly pressed a butcher’s knife in between his ribs, making Scotland gasp with pain. “Oh, I’ve missed this feeling,” Oliver crowed, licking some of Allistor’s blood from his finger as the Scotsman was disgusted to realize Oliver was rutting against him, “The feeling of your blood on my hands, the feeling of revenge, the feeling of…  _ satisfaction. _ ” Allistor groaned as Oliver twisted the knife, “Oh, how I’ve missed killing you,  _ brother dear. _ ”

Allistor gasped as the knife pierced his lung, and he slipped away into Death’s embrace as Oliver went in for a kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have fun with those historical names drops! (Desert Fox for LIFE!!)
> 
> Also, yes, Oliver is THAT kind of psycho


	13. Author Update

Okay, so there was an incident with some cantaloupe, and long story short there are now 15 stitches in my left hand. As such, typing is very very difficult, and chapters will be coming out slower, if at all. I'm sorry for any inconvenience, and I'll try o get back to this as soon and as much as possible. Peace!


	14. Lost and Found

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "It's a long way to Tipperary! It's a long way to go; It's a long way to Tipperary, to the sweetest girl I know! Goodbye, Piccadilly! Farewell, Leicester Square! It's a long, long, way to Tipperary, but my heart's right there!"
> 
> -British War Song, "A Long Way to Tipperary"

“Arthur,” someone said as Arthur struggled toward consciousness, “Arthur…”

“Hooz thur?” Arthur slurred, his mouth being rather uncooperative with his mind.

“A friend,” the voice said, a little clearer now, and Arthur tried to open his eyes. “Shh, shh, not yet,” the voice said, and Arthur felt a soft touch on his eyelids, keeping them closed, “As soon as you open those eyes, he’ll begin.”

“Who’ll begin?” Arthur asked, more awake now, “What do you mean? Who are you?”

“All in good time, Arthur,” the voice said, and Arthur could hear the smile, “He will try to break you, Arthur. I will be here to help you through it, but in the end, it is up to  _ you  _ to resist him.”

“What the bloody hell are you talking about?” Arthur demanded, but all he felt was a soft touch on the side of his cheek, and the voice said nothing more. Arthur dared to open his eyes.

What he saw chilled him terribly. There was his doppelganger, Oliver, humming a sweet tune as he baked something in the oven. His apron was covered in blood, and Arthur’s eyes widened as he sighted a crumpled remnant of a cigarette;  _ Allistor. _ Oliver turned, another pan of pink cupcakes in his hands, and started in surprise. “Oh! Arthur, dear, you’re awake!” he said, almost dropping the pan, “My my, you really are something. I expected that arsenic I fed you to keep you out for a few more hours. Ah well, the sooner the better, I suppose.” He finished off with a disgusting fake giggle that reminded Arthur of Dolores Umbridge. 

“What have you done to my brother?” he demanded, struggling against the ropes tying him down to the chair he was sat in.

“Oh, Allie-cat?” Oliver asked breezily, “Nothing nefarious I assure you. I simply had my fun with him and let him out into the rubbish; where he belongs.”

“I suppose you didn’t get on well with your Scotland, then?” Arthur asked, testing the ropes a little more, “Rather impressive, considering how well he and I got on. I didn’t think it could get much worse than that.”

That sent the fake cheer on Oliver’s face right away, and the pink-haired double took on a murderous glare as he grabbed a giant knife and slammed it into Arthur’s hand. “ _ HE ABANDONED ME, _ ” Oliver roared, “ _ JUST LIKE ALL THE OTHERS DID!  _ Just like everyone abandons  _ you _ .”

Arthur cried out as pain flared through his hand, and blood started pouring out of the wound. “Ah! Wha- what are you talking about?” he gasped, gritting his teeth.

“Oh, Arthur, Arthur, Arthur,” Oliver sighed, regaining his composure and standing up, leaving the knife embedded in his double’s hand, “I know you think you’re happy now, but everything you have? It’s rubbish. All of it. You and me, we’re alone, and we always have been. No one to turn to, no one to love, no one to rely on. That is how we have been meant to live, and that is how we shall continue to.”

Arthur grimaced as another wave of pain shot up his arm, “That was a long time ago,” he said lowly, “Things are different now. There’s the United Nations, there’s NATO, there’s-”

“ _ THERE’S NOTHING! _ ” Oliver roared, grabbing Arthur by the shoulders, “I had  _ nothing _ , don’t you understand!? Back in 1940, I  _ begged  _ for help. France had fallen and the Luftwaffe had  _ destroyed  _ the RAF. I was  _ helpless!  _ I went to the Empire, to the United States, even the Soviets! But no one thought I was worth saving,  _ no one. _ Oh sure, they say they’ll support you, that Britain shall forever remain the Last Bastion of Democracy, Europe’s Last Hope Island! But when push comes to shove, and you need help? They will abandon you, just as they abandoned  _ me _ .” Arthur edged away from Oliver, who was practically nose-to-nose with him at this point, and tried to wriggle free of his bonds.

“So,” he started, “You come from a world where the Nazis won the Battle of Britain?” 

“In under six months,” Oliver confirmed, “I was captured and kept in isolation for  _ years  _ by those wretched excuses for human beings. I was beaten and tortured, and not even by Ludwig; by  _ all of them _ . All of my European ‘comrades’ that had promised they’d stand by me, they showed their true colors that day, I tell you. Netherlands, Belgium, Luxembourg, Scotland, Wales, Poland, even sweet,  _ dear,  _ **_France_ ** . None of them truly care about you, Arthur, not like I do.”

Arthur stared at him, “What?”

“I care about you, Arthur, I do!” Oliver insisted, “Enough so to help you learn the lesson I did all those years ago!”

Arthur struggled a little more vigorously, “And what lesson was that?”

Oliver took out a blindfold and tied it around Arthur’s eyes, whispering, “You. are.  _ alone. _ ”

* * *

The wind whipped across the dunes as a man in a tattered red uniform staggered through the desert. “Must reach Washington,” he chanted, “Must reach Washington.” On his left shoulder, the badge of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police was sewn tightly, and anyone could be forgiven for wondering what a Mountie was doing in the middle of the Arabian Desert. As he crested a dune, his strength failed him, and his leg bucked so that he was sent tumbling down the other side, cursing with each impact.

As he rolled to a stop at the bottom, he groaned as he clambered back to his feet, carrying on the trek. “ _ It’s a long way back to London,”  _ he mumbled under his breath,  _ “It’s a long way to go. It’s a long way back to London, but we’ll make it home I know. Goodbye to Toronto, farewell Halifax! It’s a long, long way back to London, but we’ll make it home, I know.”  _

The wind kicked up again, and he coughed as sand blew into his mouth, and he decided against singing another verse. Clutching his tan fedora tightly to his head, he trudged onward through the sand, thinking wistfully of the blissfully cool pine forests of back home. Then he started to feel something, like he was being watched. Turning sharply, he scanned the sandy ridges for signs, but he couldn’t see anything. Cursing his fatigue, he saw no other option but to keep walking until he hit civilization. From there, hopefully, he could find an airport and make it to Washington, DC, where he hoped his comrade, Wilhelm, was waiting for him. It was a strange and jarring thing to think about, this other world, the one Einstein had called Earth-124, or for more dramatic effect, “The World of the Grand Union.” He wondered what would have happened if his brother, his Alfred, hadn’t been hung in New Orleans, and now he supposed he knew; his brother was a superpower, the hegemon of the world. A strange world indeed.

Then he heard the sound of a gun cocking. “Oh,  _ merde _ ,” he mumbled, and he dove as bullets sprayed the sand where he’d been standing just a moment before. Suddenly, all around him, men in black shirts and face coverings were toting unfamiliar-looking guns, and the Mountie rolled to one side as another spray of bullets whizzed past him. One man, no more than seventeen, was waving a black banner with some writing in Arabic that he couldn’t understand, and while he was distracted, one of the gunmen found their mark, ripping open his shoulder.

“Gah! Damn it!” he swore, clutching the wound, and as he was immobilized by injury and fatigue, the gunmen moved in as he reached for his pistol on his hip.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you, infidel,” one of them cried out, a man in long black robes that seemed to be the leader, as he had no face covering, “I believe we can shoot you dead a dozen times over before you even cock that ancient thing.”

Remembering that technology in this world was far advanced from his own, he swore under his breath and let the pistol be. “Good, good, I see we’ve come to an understanding,” the leader said, “My name is Muhammad, Caliph of the Islamic State. And you, of course, are the fearsome Matt Williams, the Dominion of Canada. We have much to discuss. _Aihzumuh!_ ”

Matt looked up at his captor defiantly as men moved in to take away his weapons and bind his hands, then they threw a burlap sack over his head and dragged him away. It seemed his quest to Washington would be taking a detour.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Aihzumuh" - Arabic, "Pack him up"  
> "Merde" - Quebecois French, "shit"
> 
> Sorry this was late, I'm lazy. Also, I'm back! I know most of you are holdovers from "Redemption", but I thought I'd put that out there for those of you that are not. My hand is healing wonderfully, and I can do most everything normally now. As such, these will be updating regularly once again! Enjoy!


	15. New Players

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "With friends like these, who needs enemies?"
> 
> -English Proverb

Ben Jones rolled his neck as he stood up from the couch after a quick nap. It was remarkable how much free time he still had, given the fact that the world seemed hellbent on tearing itself apart. Despite the brewing storm, time marched on, and it waited for no one. As he went to Unity Hill’s kitchen to get a snack, his phone buzzed and he quickly took it out, hoping it was from his contact.

_From: KS_ _  
_ _Message: I’ve got something for you, Mass._

Ben quickly typed out a reply:

MA:  _ what is it then? _

KS:  _ you seen scotland lately? _

MA:  _ no. why? _

KS:  _ i have.  _ _ link _

Ben gaped as he saw the news article KS had linked for him. The headline said in big, bold letters:  **NATION BLOODIED IN EDINBURGH! Not the invincible immortals we thought?** In the photograph beneath the headline, collapsed in a heap of cuts and bruises, Allistor Kirkland was abandoned in front of the gate to Edinburgh Castle, the victim of some horrible attack. “DAD!” Ben shouted, sprinting through the house and slamming into Maxwell Jones, the Personification of Rhode Island.

“Watch it, Masshole!” Max cried as he was flung against the wall, then his eyes widened as he looked down at Ben’s screen and caught a glimpse of the headline. Ben ran past him, not looking back for Max’s reaction.

“Dad! Uncle Al!” Ben cried again, flinging open the door to the study, where Alfred, Alexander, and Wilhelm were all in the middle of an intense discussion.

“Benjamin Jones if this is about the Red Sox again so help me-!” Alfred said in annoyance, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Wilhelm looked at Alexander, mouthing  _ Red socks? _ Alexander gave him a look that said  _ Later. _

“This is important!” Ben insisted, showing them his phone. Alfred and Alexander looked ashen, Wilhelm looked more bewildered. Possibly because he’d never seen a computer before, let alone a smartphone. 

“Someone call Arthur,” Alexander said, standing up, “Someone else book a flight. We need to get to the crime scene; if the attacker left a clue, or if Allistor knows anything, we need to know it too.”

“I’ll call Dad,” Alfred said, already reaching for the phone.

Ben got another text from KS.

KS:  _ you guys are fast. what type of jets are you using? teleporters? _

Ben furrowed his brow in confusion.  _ what? _ he typed back.

KS:  _ RI’s already on the scene. _

MA:  _ pic? _

And KS obliged him. A quick picture taken from some random Scot’s smartphone camera of Edinburgh Police crowded around Allistor, and in the middle of it all, Ben’s eyes widened as he spotted Max. But that was impossible… he’d  _ just seen  _ Max in the kitchen.

Ben ran back toward the kitchen, and spotted no one except Kentucky, who looked at him funny over the top of his glass of what Ben hoped was apple juice, but knew was whiskey. “Did you see Max around, Archie?” he asked his cousin.

Kentucky shook his head, taking another sip. “Just sat down. No one been in here but me,” he said nonchalantly, “Why do ya ask?”

“Because he just teleported to Scotland,” Ben said, looking back down at the picture again.

Kentucky just harrumphed and took another swig of whiskey. “Shortstack could’ve chosen someplace warmer,” he said snidely.

“Right… yeah,” Ben said absentmindedly, walking back toward the study.

“I’ve got no answer from Dad’s place, and his secretary says he hasn’t been in to work today,” Alfred was saying as Ben stepped back inside, panic rising in his voice, “Uncle Dylan isn’t answering and Francis doesn’t know where he is either!”

Alexander cursed as he loaded his gun, slinging it across his back. “Of course not,” he muttered, “Because why would anything go right today? Look, just… call Erin and Patrick, have them get there as soon as possible, Francis too. You and I are hopping on the next flight over. Delaware’s in charge.”

“What about me?” Wilhelm asked, standing up, “What can I do?”

“Well, after securing Allistor, our next move should be to locate Matt Williams,” Alexander said, then he pulled on his glove with his teeth, “I think it best you come with us, Wilhelm. The time has come for us to take action, and any action should be made in conjunction with Europe.”

“What about Asia?” Wilhelm asked, “Is there any word from your China?”

An uncomfortable silence settled over the room. “Nanjing is still flooded,” Alfred reported, “And Hong Kong is still in flames. I don’t think we can expect anything helpful to be coming out of China for a while.”

Wilhelm frowned, but nodded. He had been hoping for some Eastern fire support, but he supposed that this world’s Europeans would have to do. “Let us go to Scotland, then,” he said resolutely, and Alexander completed his combat gear by pulling on his tattered gray kepi cap. 

Ben had to get out of the way, watching as Alexander, Alfred, and Wilhelm passed by, all looking like men going to war. Ben frowned, realizing just how far he had to go before he was on their level. Then, remembering his own part to play in unravelling the mystery before them, urgently looked down at his phone.

MA:  _ any progress on our other project? _

KS:  _ i’m working on it. YOU try breaking through Saudi firewalls undetected; it’s hard. _

MA:  _ so is that a no? _

KS: _ not exactly. i’ve ruled out the Gaza Strip and most of Syria _

MA:  _ good to know _

KS:  _ i just want you to know how much of a pain in the ass this has been, Mass. you’re really asking a lot of favors _

MA:  _ yeah, yeah, i know, i know. but this is important, alright? i promise, i’ll get you real recognition for this. you’re doing a hero’s work _

KS:  _ fuckin better. kek out. _

Ben sighed. His contact was an amazing resource; a little off the wall, and a little more than crazy, but his heart was in the right place. But his loyalties weren’t easily won, and even less easily kept. He needed to call on him sparingly, or else risk losing his help completely. Pocketing his phone, Ben decided to go back to the kitchen for that snack he’d missed out on. And fuck it; maybe some of Kentucky’s whiskey.

* * *

Police Scotland was already on the scene when Max Apparated nearby. As he approached the police line, he flashed his badge, muttering, “CIA, move aside, move aside,” then came to Allistor’s prone form. “Allistor!” he whispered urgently as paramedics worked around him, “Allistor!”

Allistor stirred gently, then his eyes rammed open. “Artie!” he cried, then groaned as he disturbed his wounds, and he sank back to a resting position. “Maxy?” he murmured, looking up at the state warily, “What’re you doing here, lad?”

“I’m here to make sure the plan is still on course,” Max said irritably, “Where is Arthur?”

Allistor shook his head, muttering, “Psycho’s got him. We’ve gotta go after ‘im, save his sorry arse.”

Max swore. “Perfect!” he muttered, “Just perfect! I suppose because you’re here in a pile of your own blood Dylan is the one taking care of the boy?”

Allistor nodded weakly. “Dyl’ll take care of it,” he said as he was loaded onto a stretcher, “He’s as good as they come, almost as good as Artie. Don’ worry, Maxy, everythin’s still right on track. Now go back to America, ‘fore your folks get suspicious.”

Max frowned, then patted Allistor’s shoulder. “I’m sure you did all you could, Allistor,” he said, “We’ll get Arthur back. Contact me if anything further happens with the boy.” With that, Max shoved his way out of the crime scene and Disapparated back to Unity Hill, quickly stowed his wand in his room and went back down to the kitchen to see if Georgia and Maine were on cooking duty again.

* * *

Matt was brought into someplace cold and earthy, then sat down roughly in a chair and tied to it with strange plastic bonds he didn’t know how to break. The burlap sack was torn from his head, and his eyes struggled to adjust to the spotlight that was filling the room with meager light. He was in a cave, probably somewhere deep in the mountains, where the men that had captured him must have had their base of operations. A few meters away, a couple of men were passing around his pistol and laughing, and judging from Matt’s rusty Arabic, mocking its age. On the other end of the room, someone else was tied to an identical chair, an identical burlap sack still kept tight over their head. However, Matt could see the long, silvery hair falling to her (he assumed she, given the slight frame and long hair) waist. She was a prisoner, like him, which meant they could ally to escape together…

“ _ Marhabaan,  _ Mattieu Williams,” the leader from before (Muhammad, Matt remembered) said, stepping into the cave and tearing Matt away from his thoughts of escape, “Welcome to the Islamic State!”

“This is the Islamic State?” he asked scathingly, “ _ Mon Dieu _ , how did you people even buy this place? What, were all the latrine holes booked?”

Muhammad’s eyes narrowed. “Ah, so this Canada has a tongue, does he? Well, no matter; if it gets to be too much of a problem, we’ll cut it out, just like this  _ almakhadie,  _ here.” He strutted over and held up the other prisoner’s chin, and she recoiled from him, as if struck.

“ _ Lâche! _ !” Matt roared, his anger flaring, “ _ Fils de pute! _ Torturing a defenseless woman! How dare you call yourself a man! Once I get out of these bonds, I’ll show you what for!”

The prisoner swung her head in his direction, and Muhammad laughed. “Ah, so this Canada is chivalrous, too, hmm? Quite a change from the one I know! A good thing I killed that Mutt man, then; he gave us no significant information about your world,  _ mazduj _ . No matter, however, no matter,” Muhammad walked back over to Matt’s chair, holding it from the back and tipping it slightly so that Matt wasn’t touching the ground anymore, “We’ll soon know everything we need to know about your world. Tell me, Corporal Williams, has your world yet instituted the practice of  _ waterboarding? _ ”

Matt couldn’t help the slight rise of fear as the sack was thrown back over his head, and he was tipped all the way back until his head hit the ground hard. Still in a daze, he wasn’t prepared when a dozen gallons of ice cold water were splashed on his face. Coughing and spluttering, he tried to catch his breath, only for another bucket of water to meet his head. Then the other men seemed to understand what was going on, and joined in. A knife made a long gash in his leg; one of them took a hammer to his left hand; another bucket of water; someone kicked him in the face. Matt groaned sickly, then seemed to grasp exactly the kind of group he’d gotten himself captured by.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Marhabaan" - Arabic, "hello"  
> "Mon Dieu" - Quebecois French, "My God"  
> "almakhadie" - Arabic, "deceiver"  
> "Lâche!" - Quebecois French, "coward!"  
> "Fils de pute!" - Quebecois French, "son of a whore!"  
> "mazduj" - Arabic, "double; doppelganger"
> 
> Have fun with all those story implications!


	16. Plan of Action

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "O, brave new world, that has such people in it!"
> 
> -William Shakespeare, "The Tempest"

Alexander, Wilhelm, and Alfred arrived in Edinburgh several hours later, the trans-Atlantic flight having taken up much of their time. The whole way, Wihelm marveled at the advances in technology, rejoicing at the jet engine and the commercial airplane, as well as the modern international airport. “And what are these arches we are going through?” he had asked as they were each put through the metal detector, “And why can we not wear our shoes through them?”

“They’re metal detectors, to make sure we don’t have any weapons with us,” Alfred had explained happily, delighted in showing off all the futuristic technology, “And we have to take off our shoes so that the guards can search them for explosives. It’s all about keeping people safe.”

Wilhelm had grinned in response, saying “ _ Wunderbar!"  _ as the exacerbated TSA agent hurriedly waved him through, muttering "Immigrants…"

Wilhelm was absolutely floored by the amount of comfort the plane provided, and almost laughed when Alfred told him he didn't have to pay for the peanuts and a drink. “The future really is wonderful,” he said happily, looking out the window at the clouds below them, then seemed to wilt, “er… your future, anyway.”

Alfred had smiled and patted him on the back, saying, “Have a little faith. Once we get our act together on this end, we’ll do our best to help your world. I promise.”

Wilhelm smiled in return, and the rest of the flight passed in relative silence, with only the occasional gasp of surprise from the German as he read the onboard flight catalog. When they finally did arrive in Edinburgh, they had hurried as soon as they could to the hospital where Allistor was interred, meeting Patrick at the door.

“ _ Dia dhuit _ , you three,” Patrick said curtly, then did a double-take when he saw Wilhelm. “What’s with the new look, Ludwig?” he asked.

“Ah,  _ guten morgen, Irland _ ,” Wilhelm said cordially, extending a hand, “We haven’t been formally introduced, I believe. I am Wilhelm Beilschmidt,  _ Personifizierung des Kaiserreichs _ ”

Patrick looked at Alfred and Alexander, who only nodded to him. “Good to meet you then, Wilhelm,” Patrick said finally, shaking his hand, “I’ve been told we’re expecting you.”

“Wilhelm?” a voice said behind them, “Should I take that to mean the Wilhelm we heard about in that mysterious tape?”

Wilhelm turned smilingly, intending to greet the new arrival as cordially as possible (the future of his world could rely on his first impressions with these Nations) but when he turned, a cold stone dropped in his gut. “ _ Frankreich! _ ” he cried, drawing his gun like lightning as he saw the man that had for so long headed the offensive against him. This was the man that had destroyed Dusseldorf and Frankfurt, the man that had indiscriminately slaughtered the best and brightest of Germany’s youth not once,  _ but twice! _ Wilhelm needed to stop him, he needed to end this war, he needed to kill France right here, right now--!

“ _ PUT THE GODDAMN GUN DOWN, WILHELM!! _ ” Alexander’s scream of rage finally broke through Wilhelm’s thoughts, and he suddenly realized that the Southerner, along with Alfred and Patrick, had wrestled him to the ground, trying to disarm him. As he came back to reality, Wilhelm had the dim thought that, of course, the man standing in shock a few feet away could not possibly be  _ his  _ Francis; there was no way the Communard could have followed him through the multiverse without Einstein’s Machine. With a jolt, he realized that this was  _ this world’s  _ Francis… and he had just gone crazy and pulled a gun on him. Wonderful first impression.

“I… I…  _ mein Gott _ ,  _ vergib mir _ ,” Wilhelm stammered, quickly dropping his gun and trying to compose himself, “I’m sorry, Francis, it’s just, you… you look like…”

Francis smiled sadly, picking up the ancient pistol as Alfred, Alexander, and Patrick began to let the German up. “ _ C'est bon _ ,” he said softly, handing the gun back, “I understand the feeling of… tension, when you see my face. It took me a very long time to stop jumping whenever our Germany walked into the room.”

Wilhelm brushed himself off, apologizing to his captors again and thanking them, then took the gun back and holstered it. “Right,” he responded, gathering his thoughts, “The, er…  _ Nazis _ . It is still a little hard to believe that Hitler would do something like that; in my world, he is a famous war hero from the interventions in the Russian Civil War, and an accomplished artist.”

“Really?” Francis asked, quirking his eyebrow, “Well… how subjective things are to the whims of fate.”

“ _ Ja… _ ” Wilhelm said, clearing his throat in the uncomfortable silence that followed. “I,  _ ahem _ , I believe we got off on the… how do you say it? Wrong foot?” he continued, extending his hand out, “I am Wilhelm Beilschmidt, Personification of the Kaiserreich.”

Francis took his hand graciously, saying, “Francis Bonnefoy, Personification of the Fifth French Republic.” They shook hands, and Patrick cleared his throat.

“Hate to break up all the handshakin’, but my brother is still in hospital…” he said pointedly, gesturing to the front door of the building.

“Right! Er,  _ ja _ , we should go assure that Herr Allistor is well,” Wilhelm said awkwardly, breaking off the handshake and stepping up the steps, attempting to push open the doors only for them to open by themselves, which both startled and impressed him. With a discreet little grin on his face, he led the way inside.

After being directed to Allistor’s room, Francis waived off the Scotland Yard agents that were guarding the room, saying that “That is  _ my beau-frère,  _ and  _ my  _ husband is still missing! You will let me and my friends in to see him,  _ now! _ ” When they finally reached the Scotsman’s bedside, they took in the sorry sight.

Allistor Kirkland, once the proud Warrior of the Highlands, had been laid low by innumerable cuts, lacerations, bruises, and broken bones. Though his Nation healing was helping, without the catalyst of full death it was slow going, and even then it would have taken hours for injuries this serious, and during such an uncertain time for his nation, when Scottish Patriotism was wavering with the fear and uncertainty. “It’s a miracle he’s even still alive,” the baffled British doctor said to them as they were briefed on his condition, “I’ve never seen anything like it. I mean, from this, numerous incredibly deep lacerations were made while he was still conscious, and there’s no trace of anesthetic in his system! These Nation fellows really are something, aren’t they?”

“Oh,  _ Écosse _ ,” Francis sighed as he sat by Allistor’s side, brushing a bit of red hair out of his eyes as the heart monitor beeped steadily, “What did they do to you,  _ vieil ami? _ ”

“Is there any hope he’ll wake up soon?” Alexander asked the doctor as Wilhelm and Alfred found seats.

“Well, under normal circumstances, I’d say he’d never wake up,” the doctor said exasperatedly, “The truth of the matter is, he’s lost so much blood and sustained so much damage, he shouldn’t be breathing without impaling his lungs on his own ribs. It’s as if someone just went to town on him with a butcher’s knife and a sledgehammer; if I knew more about a Nation’s physiology, I would be able to tell you more, but right now… all we can do is administer painkillers and wait.”

Sighing, Alexander turned back to the hospital bed, where he watched the ventilator control Allistor’s breathing. Alexander took a deep breath as he thought about what the next move should be. “Patrick, get your guns,” he said finally, “We’re going to Arthur’s house, see if we can’t find any clues as to what happened. Alfred, you take Wilhelm down to the castle and look for any traces of who did this. Francis, you should stay behind in case Allistor wakes up, he’ll have invaluable information. We’re going to catch this son of a bitch, and we’re going to make them pay for attacking one of our own.”

Patrick nodded, slinging a rifle over his shoulder as he started out the door, and Wilhelm and Alfred nodded to each other as they departed. Francis looked up at them as they left, saying, “Find who did this. I wish to speak to them myself.”

Alexander pulled on his old gray kepi hat, then looked Francis in the eye. “Sir, yes, sir,” he said, then turned out the door after Patrick, leaving the Frenchman to tend to Allistor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Wunderbar" - German, "Wonderful"  
> "Dia dhuit" - Irish Gaelic, "Good Day"  
> "Guten morgen" - German, "good morning"  
> "mein Gott, vergib mir" - German, "My God, forgive me"  
> "c'est bon" - French, "It's alright"  
> "Écosse" - French, "Scotland"  
> "vieil ami" - French, "old friend"
> 
> I'm back! Now that some semblance of structure has returned to my life, so has my schedule! Reflection will now be updating every Monday, opposite Redemption which will go up on Fridays! Peace!


	17. Merlin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Of course it is happening inside your head, Harry. But why on earth should that mean that it is not real?"
> 
> -Albus Dumbledore, "Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows"

Arthur shivered in his chair as the cold began to seep in again. There was a cycle, he had learned, in Oliver’s torture; first, his double enjoyed taunting him, telling him stories of his sick and twisted world, of how much of a joy it had been to slide the knife’s blade across his Francis’s neck, of how his Alfred had screamed when Oliver broke his leg. Arthur disliked those sessions.

Then his host would somehow find self control and let Arthur sit alone, for how long Arthur was not sure. The worst part was, what with the thick blindfold and the noise cancelling headphones Oliver would apply every time, Arthur could see nothing, hear nothing, not even his own screams or pleas for help. The silence was deafening. The darkness all-encompassing. The loneliness omnipresent. He disliked these sessions even more.

Then, of course, there was the main attraction that Oliver so enjoyed; the carving. During these sessions, Arthur would still be blindfolded and deafened, so that he couldn’t know where or when Oliver’s butcher knife would grace his skin. Arthur shuddered at each hot breath on his neck, each slow, dragging slice along his arms, every twisting stab into his gut. Arthur was always disgusted by this, as Oliver seemed to take a perverted, almost loving care in his work. Always, always, Oliver asked him with a microphone if Arthur was enjoying it as much as he was as he caressed his leg, letting the cold flat of the blade rest on his cheek. Arthur disliked these most of all.

Arthur had learned to compartmentalize, however. Despite his continued isolation, he was confident that his grasp on sanity remained absolute; he frequently did maths problems in his head, as well as imagined his friends and family, their appearances, their voices. Francis, with his long blonde hair and deep purple eyes… or were they blue? No, they were green. No, no, they were definitely blue. Dark blue or light blue?

No matter; Alfred, then.  _ His  _ eyes were definitely blue, blue like the sky. With short blonde hair and his glasses and that funny little band-aid on his nose… wait, no, it was Jett that had the band-aid. Alfred had the jacket. Yes, that’s right, the jacket. 

Jett, his raucous, wild son, that traversed the Outback at his leisure. With his infectious laugh, ridiculous accent, and an honestly unhealthy obsession with  _ The Lord of the Rings _ … no, wait, that was New Zealand, his little Toby. 

Arthur shook his head vehemently, trying to clear his head. He knew this, he just needed to concentrate, was all. Francis’s eyes… they were… they were… “Wake up, Arthur,” someone said, and Arthur recoiled immediately.

“Oliver?” he asked, and he was startled that he could hear his own voice. “Wh-what’s…” Arthur licked his lips, trying to swallow down the dryness in his throat, “What’s going on?”

“Arthur, open your eyes,” his companion said soothingly, “It’s alright. I am not your captor.”

Arthur dared to open his eyes, then had to blink several times to adjust to the dizzying light. “ _ Ah! _ ” he swore, squinting at the brightness as it hurt his eyes, “Bloody hell! Haven’t you ever heard of a dimmer switch? Who are you, anyway?”

The man before him smiled. He wore a midnight blue suit, with a bushy, poorly-kempt beard and twinkling scarlet eyes. He was sat easily in a simple wooden chair, his legs crossed in a casual stance. “You know me, Arthur,” he said smoothly, “We’ve known each other for centuries. You just haven’t known it.”

Arthur shook his head a little more, then noticed that he was no longer bound to that chair in that dark room. “What magic  _ is  _ this?” he asked, looking down at himself, “Astral projection?”

“Something of the kind,” his companion confirmed, “More of a… private conference room for the minds. You and I have a lot to discuss, Arthur.”

“I’d rather like to know your name before any of that,” Arthur said sardonically, “And none of this ‘I already know you’ hogwash, give me a straight answer or I’ll happily throttle you.”

“Touchy, touchy,” the man laughed, then stood up and swept himself into a dramatic bow, “Very well, sire. The sorcerer Merlin, at your service.”

“Merlin?” Arthur asked as the man resumed his seated position, “ _ The  _ Merlin? That’s impossible; you’re just a story! A wizard folk tale!”

“Perhaps,” Merlin said musingly, “But then again, so are you.”

Arthur stared at him. “ _ What? _ ” he said incredulously.

“Aren’t we all just stories, Arthur?” Merlin asked him, “Isn’t the sun just a ball of fire? Isn’t the Earth just a circle? It doesn’t matter whether we’re stories or not, all that matters is if we’re true stories.”

“Well,  _ I’m _ most certainly a true story,” Arthur grumbled, “ _ You _ are a fantasy, created from the poorly recorded collision of Christianity and Paganism.”

Merlin merely smiled again. “Maybe you’re right, Arthur, maybe you’re right. But then how am I here before you?”

Arthur clenched his jaw, then sighed. “I’m hallucinating,” he concluded, “I’ve finally cracked under the pressure and I’m hallucinating. Dreaming up some mythical figure to talk to while my mind fractures into tiny little pieces. Just wonderful.”

Merlin laughed, “Well, at least you’ll have company while you descend into madness. But, no, Arthur, I am not here because you ‘dreamt me up’. I am here because there is a great and powerful evil in your world, and greater evil to follow it. You must be ready for both, and unfortunately, we do not have enough time for you to reach your full potential naturally. Thus, here I am to help you pursue it through… less travelled means.”

“‘Less travelled’?” Arthur asked, “What does that mean? And what great evil, the doppelgangers? I’m sure that my colleagues are more than capable of dealing with such rabble rousers-”

“Your faith, while admirable, is misplaced,” Merlin informed him matter-of-factly, and Arthur’s jaw snapped shut in shock. He had been expecting a rebuttal, but not one quite so brutal and efficient. “Of course, dear Alexander will try to rally the rest of your world’s Nations to fight the 2Ps, but outside of a few small victories, they will be outmatched and outmaneuvered. They will come very close to winning, but they will lack the strength to strike the deathblow. That, Arthur, is where you’ll come in; unless of course, you’d be comfortable with everyone you know and love being left to die.”

Arthur ground his teeth frustratedly, Merlin merely watching him patiently, waiting for his decision. “Fine,” he growled eventually, “Fine! What do you want me to do then? Sacrifice a goat? Maybe strew about the knuckle bones of a saint no one’s heard of since the Dark Ages?”

Merlin smiled again, then calmly asked, “What do you know about Camelot?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this was late, I was very tired yesterday from Yom Kippur (it's a fasting holiday) Enjoy this insight as to who that mysterious voice was from when Arthur was captured! Let the King Arthur allegory begin!


	18. House Call

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "All it takes is one bad day to reduce the sanest man to lunacy. That's how far the world is from where I am; One. Bad. Day."
> 
> -The Joker

_Edinburgh, Scotland_ _  
_ _May 2027_ _  
_ _Earth-124_

Wilhelm kept marvelling at the scenery as he and Alfred returned to the gates of Edinburgh Castle, the scene of the crime. All along the way he pointed out cars, trucks, satellite dishes, (he was especially impressed by satellites) and simple things like automatic doors. “ _Mein Gott_ , I never thought I’d say this,” he said happily, “But I _love_ Scotland!”

Alfred laughed, then grew a little more serious as they approached the scene of the crime. “The police still have the area roped off, but there’s no one left onsite,” he said as the gates came into view, “We’re looking for anything they might have missed, anything that might tip us off as to what happened.”

“Right, _ja_ ,” Wilhelm said, also reverting back to his more serious persona, “Let’s start looking, then.” The two of them spent a few minutes poking around, and Alfred took a step back as he took in the scene.

“Why _here?_ ” he wondered aloud, and Wilhelm looked up at him from where he had been searching a public ash tray.

“ _Was?_ ” he asked.

“Why here?” Alfred said again, gesturing to the castle, “Why in front of Castle Edinburgh? Why not somewhere less conspicuous?”

Wilhelm frowned. “Perhaps… the attacker wanted him to be found,” he said musingly, “He wanted the body noticed.”

“He’s practiced, by the looks of what he did to Uncle Allie,” Alfred concluded, “and he wanted to make sure that the body was found. He wanted people to notice, he wanted his name up in lights. He wanted his work admired, like some sick piece of art!”

“What kind of person would… do something like that?” Wilhelm asked, shaken by this revelation.

“There have been a few people like that, especially in Britain,” Alfred said grimly, “We’re dealing with a serial killer. And judging from the way those knife marks were on Scotland? We’re dealing with another Jack the Ripper.”

* * *

_Birmingham, England_ _  
_ _May 2027_ _  
_ _Earth-124_

Alexander and Patrick approached the house slowly. Patrick unslung his rifle from his shoulder, cocking it as they approached the front step, while Alexander drew his pistol, slowly pulling back the hammer. Silently, they came upon the door, and Patrick laid a hand on the doorknob. “ _One, two, three!_ ” he mouthed, and they both stepped into the house quickly as the Irishman flung open the door, scanning the foyer with their guns.

“Nothing,” Alexander reported, relaxing his arm.

“ _Rud ar bith_ ,” Patrick said in Gaelic, lowering his rifle, “You take the sitting room, I’ll move to the kitchen?”

Alexander nodded, then crept slowly to the left as Patrick moved to the right. “ _Hold it!_ ” Patrick hissed urgently, and Alexander whipped back around.

“What is it?” he asked in a whisper.

“I’ve got light,” Patrick said softly, gesturing to the kitchen, which was still lit. 

Nodding at his companion, Alexander began to creep forward, Patrick crouching beside him. As they entered the kitchen, they both stepped around the corner and into the light, only to find a gruesome scene. “ _Jesus_ ,” Alexander breathed as he took it in, Patrick taking off his hat in astonishment. 

In the center of the room a singular wooden chair sat, covered with dried blood and with the cut remnants of leather belts laying around it, probably used to strap down the occupant. On the counter, various cooking elements, such as knives, apple corers, and rolling pins were also coated in sickly red dry blood. On the walls, also scrawled in blood, were various smiley faces and one clear message: _TOO SLOW_.

However, on the table at the back of the kitchen, a notecard sat with a smiley face in bright red ink, addressed _To:_ _Racist Bigot & Ungrateful Terrorist_. Swallowing back the bile in his throat, Alexander picked up the note. “I think it’s addressed to us,” he said dryly, flipping it open to read:

_Dear Unwelcome Guests,_

_Rest assured, little Artie is fine! However, I think you will find that his mean old brother Allie-cat is… considerably less fine. If you are reading this, that means you have discovered the redecorating I’ve undertaken in this drab place; do you like it? I think it’s absolutely delightful, but my new flatmate seems to disagree; pity, really. Ah well, though; bygones be bygones, and all. I do so hope you’re not stressing your little brains too harshly trying to find me, for you see: you never will. Or at the very least, not in time to save poor, proud Arthur. I admit, he is fighting better than most, (certainly better than_ you _did, Patrick) but even now his sanity is slipping away like sand with the tide. We’ve had the most delightful time together; he’s told me so many wonderful stories about his_ beloved children _. He seems so convinced that you will be able to save him, poor dear. What fun it will be to watch when he finally snaps and kills you all for me!_

_Yours Sincerely,_

_Oliver Kirkland_

_P.S. you may wish to leave before the redecorating is complete. ;)_

“Before it’s complete?” Patrick wondered aloud, “Isn’t it already done?”

Alexander frowned, then gasped as he realized. “OUT!” he roared, sprinting for the window, Patrick hot on his heels. As they leapt through the glass, the house erupted into a massive explosion, sending them both tumbling into grass.

Alexander sat up, then frantically swatted out a part of his pantleg that had caught fire. Catching his breath, he leaned back on his elbow with Patrick, watching Arthur’s house burn to the ground. “Well,” Patrick sighed, “That could’ve gone better.” Alexander only sighed in response, falling into the grass.

* * *

_New York City, New York_  
_May 2027_ _  
_ Earth-124

New York City was bustling with life as always; they didn’t call it “The City That Never Sleeps” for nothing. And today, Mayor Leonard “Lenny” Margulies had his hands full with a mountain of paperwork. New York was still digging itself out of debt from 2020, what with the Quarantine and the riots, and only now was it starting to get back on its feet. As he was signing off on a new expanded budget for the NYPD, a knock came at his door. “Come in,” he said, irritated at the interruption.

“Mr. Mayor,” a man said as he walked in, with dark red hair, and ear piercing, and dark sunglasses.

“Ah, Alfred, it’s you,” he sighed, “What the hell did you do to your hair? And when did you of all people get a tan?”

The man laughed jovially, then said, “No, Mr. Mayor, I’m not Alfred.” He snapped his fingers, and a group of men in full riot armor bearing a strange American flag that had an eagle with an axe came into the office, seizing Mayor Lenny by the arms and sacking the office.

“Hey hey, what the hell is this?” Lenny cried as he was manhandled to his feet.

“There’s been a change in management around here, Mr. Mayor,” the redheaded Alfred smiled, looking at him over his sunglasses. His eyes were bright red. “I’m in charge now,” Not-Alfred said, and suddenly a rat stick appeared in his hand as he swung with all his might at Mayor Lenny’s head.


	19. A House Divided

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "A house divided against itself cannot stand!"
> 
> -Abraham Lincoln

_ ISIS Headquarters, Middle East _ _  
_ _ May 2027 _ _  
_ _ Earth-124 _

Klaus heard the screams more than anything else. His companion, the Canadian from another world, Matt Williams, was having the works done again. Klaus shivered so that his long silver hair trembled; his captors, upon discovering the type of man he was, had ripped his hair out of his customary ponytail, and had removed all the bulky armor and bundles of cloth he’d used to hide the side of himself he didn’t want to be. The part he wasn’t allowed to be. And, of course, when he’d objected too much to their plans with him, they cut out his tongue. Now, he couldn’t even speak to his newfound comrade, only listen to his pained words of comfort to what he thought was a damsel in distress. Klaus had appreciated the thought, but he cringed inwardly each time Matt said “ _ mademoiselle _ ”. Klaus was a  _ man _ , and no one was going to take that away from him.

Still, Klaus felt like Matt was his best chance of escape from this wretched place, and still being beneath the burlap sack which his captors threw over his head, and his hands still bound to the chair that was his prison, he could only listen as his co-prisoner was tortured. “I will not ask you again, Corporal,” Muhammad growled as his men undertook his work for him, (Muhammad rarely dirtied his hands himself) “ _ What is happening on your world!? _ ”

Someone coughed and spluttered in response. Klaus assumed it was Matt. “What do you want, a history textbook?” the Canadian asked brokenly, his voice hoarse from screaming, “There’s a  _ WAR _ , you  _ fucking moron!! _ ”

Muhammad snarled, then Matt screamed again. Klaus trembled and shook his head, trying to block out the wretched sound, but it was no use. “Tell me what is happening to your America!” Muhammad snarled, “Your Britain! Your France!  _ TELL ME, INFIDEL SCUM!! _ ” Klaus heard the crunch of concave bone, and Matt let out a guttural, visceral sound of pain that made Klaus’s stomach drop.

“ _ Alright! _ Alright…” Matt gasped, and Klaus’s heart twisted, “I’ll tell… I’ll tell…”

“Good…  _ good _ …” Muhammed sighed as he winded down from the rage high, “Now tell me, infidel, of your world.”

When Matt next spoke, Klaus could have sworn he was crying. “War in America,” he gasped, almost inaudible, “Civil War… bad, very bad… no coming back… Alfred, MacArthur, both dead… riots in Quebec, about the draft… Berlin almost fallen… France, Britain, Russia, all the enemy… need to go home, reclaim the birthright, return the king to his rightful throne. But… nukes… others… had to work with Wilhelm… had to come here… needed help…”

“A world where America is dead and gone…?” Muhammad mused, “And the West is in flames?  _ Perfect _ .” Klaus heard someone walking away, probably Muhammad stalking over to one of his lackies. “ _ You! _ Activate the Machine! I want to bring them  _ all through! _ ”

“No!” Matt cried, then he devolved into bloody coughing, only to come back as the Machine whirred to life, “You can’t use it continuously like that! You’ll overload the Machine, cause irreparable damage!”

“ _ Quiet, Corporal! _ ” Muhammad snarled back, “Allah will make it work, for I am His chosen one;  _ Begin! _ ” The Machine whirred and thumped deafeningly, wheezing and groaning, and Klaus curled in on himself, bracing. He felt the heat on his skin, something he hadn’t felt in a very long time, and everything flashed into white as the Machine exploded.

* * *

_ Saratoga, Upstate New York _ _  
_ _ December 1941 _ _  
_ _ Earth-1118 _

Benjy Jones sighed as he collapsed next to his brother Alan, who laid in a pile of red snow. “Come on, Yorkie,” he sighed, trying to tug Alan to his feet, “We need to go. The Syndies are closing in, we don’t have much time.”

“Leave me,” Alan moaned, sitting up, “It’s over for me anyway… it’s been over since they took Albany…”

“Don’t talk like that,” Benjy responded, staggering up to his feet as he tried again in vain to pull Alan up, “New England needs New York.”

“No,” New York sighed, standing and shoving Benjy forward, “It needs Massachusetts. Go, quickly, before they get here. You only have a few minutes.” Benjy looked anguished for a second, but then sighed and pressed a magazine of bullets into Alan’s freezing hands.

“Give ‘em hell, Yorkie,” he said sadly, then he sprinted off into the snowy forests of what was left of New York, towards the Hudson Line.

Alan staggered to his feet, watching as red flags crested the hill. “ _ Start spreading the news… _ ” he murmured, just the barest hint of a melody in his voice, “ _ I’m leaving today… to make a brand new start of it…”  _ he loaded the magazine into his gun, “ _ In old New York… _ ” he pulled the pin on his last grenade, “ _ These vagabond shoes… are longing to stray…”  _ he lobbed the grenade at the approaching soldiers, “ _ right through the very heart of it; New York, New York…” _ The soldiers noticed him, now they began firing back as a cloud of shrapnel and snow enveloped some of them, “ _ I wanna wake up, in a city… that never sleeps… I want to be a part of it… New York, New York…”  _ Alan fired up the ridge, and a bullet ripped through his lung, throwing him to the ground. “ _ It’s up to you, New York,”  _ he sang the last verse sadly, red seeping into the snow around him, “ _ New York…” _

And as Benjy watched his brother die in the snow, singing of a city he would never set foot in again, the New Englander screamed with fury and charged the ridge, killing every Syndicalist soldier he saw with his rifle and baseball bat. Then the sky exploded.

* * *

_ El Paso, Independent Republic of Texas _ _  
_ _ December 1941 _ _  
_ _ Earth-1118 _

Noah growled as he dived into a gully, narrowly avoiding Indian machine gun fire. The savages had seen the war as an opportunity to reclaim land lost in Arizona and New Mexico, and of course they went after Texas first, because he held Oklahoma. Cocking his gun, he stepped out into the line of fire and put lead through the chests of at least six men, before having to duck behind cover again. “We can’t hold like this, Sarge!” a man on his right said, a decorated soldier called Audie Murphy.

“Just hold on, Murphy, reinforcements should be here soon from Houston,” Noah sighed, aiming blind shots in the vague direction of the attackers; where were the Texas Rangers? His top troops should have arrived by now…

However, Noah would never know what had become of his reinforcements, as at that moment, the sky exploded.

* * *

_ Las Vegas, Nevada _ _  
_ _ December 1941 _ _  
_ _ Earth-1118 _

Rob fired out the second-story window of the Arizona Club, trying to rid the Strip of the Mormon fighters. After MacArthur got burned, they’d made it priority number one to cleanse the “Capital of Sin”, even if all of the poor bastards died trying to do it. Normally, he didn’t have a problem with the Mormons, but now they stood between the Pacific States and the Mississippi River, and if he was to make it to Washington, that needed to change. As he switched to reload his gun, everything went white as a deafening boom filled Las Vegas; the sky had exploded.

* * *

_ Twin Falls, Idaho _ _  
_ _ December 1941 _ _  
_ _ Earth-1118 _

Jeremiah could scarcely believe how cold it got in Idaho, especially that early into the winter. Still, though, as his brothers and sisters endeavored to cleanse Las Vegas in the south, Jeremiah and his troops needed to hold the line in the north, to ensure that the Pacific States never struck too far into the heart of Deseret. As he went outside again to scan the surrounding hills for signs of movement, the sky exploded.

* * *

_ Panama Canal Zone, Panama _ _  
_ _ December 1941 _ _  
_ _ Earth-1118 _

Todd and Trevor huddled together amongst the remains of the Federal Army as the ship pulled silently into the canal. After MacArthur was killed in Salt Lake City, most thought it was over for the United States. However, Dwight D “Ike” Eisenhower, the American Augustus, had rallied the last of them in Alaska, and now they took part in this daring plan. Although Trevor did miss the mountains of Colorado, and Todd the snowy forests of the Yukon, they had a job to do; if they could just retake the Panama Canal, they would have a launching point into Puerto Rico and Guantanamo Bay, and then up into Florida or maybe even Louisiana itself. As  _ USS Ketchikan _ came to a halt in the canal, Todd and Trevor grinned at each other, then leapt from their hiding places and onto the shore, surprising the unsuspecting Panamanians.

The battle was short but bloody, and soon many Americans and Panamanians alike were dying the canal waters red. Todd and Trevor had little time to relish their victory, however, as soon the sunny tropical sky exploded into white.

* * *

_ Detroit, Michigan _ _  
_ _ December 1941 _ _  
_ _ Earth-1118 _

Axel ducked behind cover as Canadian Royal Marines took the Financial District; the Syndicalists would have to fall back to Foxtown now, trying to stop the advance from reaching headquarters in Highland Park. If they lost Detroit, it could mean the end of the Revolution. And Axel was  _ not  _ going back to the way things were, not after all he had lost; he jumped out from behind the corner he had been using as cover, screaming bloody murder, and the sky exploded.

* * *

_ Louisville, Kentucky _ __  
_ December 1941 _ _  
_ __ Earth-1118

Alexander and Adelaide did enjoy working together again; the Ku Klux Klan and the American Union State made quite the pair. In exchange for military services, the Union State allowed the Klan to lay claim to Kentucky and Virginia, and the Klan helped the Kingfish root out undesirables in his regime that might be counterproductive to America’s reunification. It also helped that they were the ones currently in possession of Washington, DC… or at least, what was left of it. Still, the father/daughter pair bonded once again over the indiscriminate slaughter of all those north of the Mason-Dixon Line, and the eradication of the black race to ensure America’s purity in the coming age. With new camps being built in Charlotte, Nashville, and Atlanta, their genocide was well under way. It was a shame about poor Tennessee… the kid had gotten cold feet and tried to defect to Texas, so Adelaide had had to throw him into Nashville’s furnaces. Him and that blasted mandolin of his. 

But now, however, the two of them were in their element, killing Syndies with impunity in the Third Battle of Louisville, a border town between the Combined Syndicates and the Klan States. Just as they began to retake Germantown, however, they were both caught up in a massive explosion from the sky.


	20. Prison Break

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Freedom cannot be bestowed-- it must be achieved."
> 
> -Franklin Delano Roosevelt

_ISIS Headquarters, Middle East_  
_May 2027_ _  
_ Earth-124

Matt was barely conscious when all hell broke loose. His ribs were still shattered from the sledgehammer Muhammad had used on him, and suddenly there were a dozen new people in the room. Soon, there was shouting in English, Arabic, and what sounded like Cajun French as gunfire split the air. One of the newcomers, a short teen with close-cropped brown hair leaned down over him, wearing a green uniform with a pinetree insignia. “Matt?” Benjy Jones asked him.

“New England?” Matt asked in reply, still delirious from pain, “What are you doing here? You should be on the Hudson!”

“I was!” Benjy said defensively, working on cutting him free while gunfire erupted around them, “Then York and I ran into some Syndies, he went down, and the sky exploded!”

Matt groaned as New England hauled him to his feet. “Come on, boss, let’s get you outta here,” Benjy said as he began to carry him out of the cave.

“Wait!” Matt cried, pointing to where the other prisoner was still tied to her chair, cowering and flinching as bullets whizzed around her, “We need to save her, too!”

“Fuckin hell, boss!” Benjy grumbled, letting go of him to start cutting the woman free, “Who is this guy that he’s kidnapping broads?”

“It’s a long story,” Matt huffed, barely holding himself up against the cave wall as a bullet nearly hit his nose, “And one that I’m pretty sure I don’t know the full details of.”

Finally, Benjy had the other prisoner free, and he took the sack off her head. Matt looked at her, and his heart skipped a beat. She was beautiful, with long, silvery white hair, piercing red eyes, pale, flushed skin, and a firm, determined jawline that implied she had seen battle. In fact, looking at her face for the first time, he noticed… “You’re a _man??_ ” Matt asked in disbelief, totally shocked.

The other prisoner rolled his eyes and nodded, rubbing his sore wrists. “I’m so confused,” Matt whispered to himself, very confused as to why, even though he now _knew_ he was looking at a man, his heart was still dancing the Charleston. Perhaps it was just the shattered ribs and the being shot at. “No time for this, boss!” Benjy shouted at him, snapping Matt back to reality. New England turned back to the other prisoner; “Can you walk?” he nodded, “Can you shoot?” he nodded again, “Take this, follow me!” Benjy handed over a Smith-Wessen Model 10 revolver, then looped Matt’s arm over his shoulders and began trudging through the caves. 

“Hey! Benjy!” someone behind them shouted, and Matt dared to turn his head to see Rob Jones, the Pacific States, jogging toward them, a rifle clutched in his hands, “I’ll cover you! Go, go, go!” He turned and fired, downing one of the masked Arabs.

“Don’t let them escape!” Muhammed cried somewhere in the din, “Take them down, bring them back!!”

“Escape!” Benjy cried, dragging Matt along and Rob and the other prisoner provided covering fire. 

“ _Ragh!_ ” Rob cried out as a string of bullets tore through his shoulder, “ _Fuck!_ What guns are these guys _using!?_ ”

“They’re called automatic machine guns!” Matt shouted back, “Way beyond anything we’ve got back home! Just keep shooting and try not to get shot anymore!”

The other prisoner, silent through this whole exchange, turned out to be a crack shot with the revolver, downing three Arab fighters in as many shots. “Good news,” Benjy said as he dragged Matt around a corner, “Our bullets go through them just as well as theirs go through us!”

“That doesn’t mean anything,” Rob grunted as he pushed against the wall, catching his breath, “As soon as Man could throw a heavy enough rock, he could effectively kill his brother.”

“Do you have to turn everything into a philosophy lesson?” Benjy demanded, spotting daylight ahead of them.

“What can I say?” Rob shot back, firing down the hall at the people chasing them, “The end of the world’s made me a little philosophical!”

“I saw Todd and Trevor back there,” Benjy said, changing topic, “Do you think we should go back for them?”

“Hell no!” Rob protested, “We’ve got wounded! We’re not going back for some MacArthurist scum!”

“MacArthur’s dead, Rob,” Matt reminded the Westerner quietly, “Eisenhower’s in charge now. Todd and Trevor are our allies.”

“I said I’m _not_ going back!” Rob shouted, reloading his gun, “I’m bleeding, you look like you’re dying, and Benjy’s out because he’s carrying you! And I’m pretty sure Silent But Deadly over here doesn’t even know who we’re talking about!” Silent But Deadly looked scandalized at his new nickname. 

“Matt, what’s the call?” Benjy asked, dragging him further toward the mouth of the cave.

Matt was in too much pain to think straight. Todd and Trevor were valuable allies, and he couldn’t leave them in a foreign world in good conscience, but he also wasn’t sure if they had the capacity to go back for them… The other prisoner took Matt’s other arm around his shoulder, nodding to Rob and Benjy, then jerking his head back toward the fight. “You’ve gotta be shitting me,” Rob cried, and Benjy hefted his gun.

“Come on, Pacific, we’re going back in there!” the New Englander cried, bellowing a war cry and firing blindly. 

Matt and his companion, meanwhile, trudged onward into the baking desert sun, two more revolver shots taking care of the guards posted outside. Matt tried very hard not to think of how his body was pressing up against his rescuer’s, or of how lithe and muscular the other man felt beneath the ragged clothes. Definitely not. Not at all. Nor was he thinking of his hair, his eyes, or his face. Nope. Never. 

After what seemed like an eternity, the prisoner found a shady rock outcropping, and laid Matt to rest in the space below it. Sighing as he began to nurse his broken ribs, Matt looked up at his newfound savior. “Thank you,” he said, wincing through the effort of breathing, “I’m… sorry I’ve been calling you a woman all this time.” The prisoner shrugged indifferently, then tore off a piece of his shirt (exposing his midriff, Matt noticed) and used it to tie his long hair into a ponytail, leaving two locks of hair hanging around his face. The effect was much more masculinizing, and Matt now found it hard to believe that he had ever mistaken his new friend for a girl. Still, there was a nagging feeling at the back of his head that he couldn’t quite shake… “Who are you?” Matt asked eventually, “What's your name?”

He opened his mouth to talk, then his jaw clacked shut as an odd look came to his eyes. Then Matt remembered that Muhammad had cut out his tongue, and felt terrible for asking something that could only be said in reply. Before he could apologize, though, his friend knelt down in the dust and drew with his finger, and pretty passably wrote “Klaus”.

Matt grinned, then nodded. “Nice to meet you, Klaus,” he said, extending a hand, “I’m Matt. You a Prussian?”

Klaus shook his hand, and nodded. “ _Tres bien_ ,” Matt sighed, drifting into unconsciousness as the pain started to fade away and the world grew dimmer, “Always liked Prussians…” And the last thing he saw was Klaus’s ruby red eyes as he drifted away into the dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Sorry for the lateness, my life has been pretty crazy as of late. And I'm also lowkey pretty sure that my country's falling apart. But hey, we'll all find out in two weeks, won't we? *nervous laughter* Still, the world spins on, and this story is probably the only thing keeping me sane, so enjoy this next thrilling chapter (as well as Klaus making Matt question his sexuality) and I'll see you next week! Hopefully, the Second American Civil War remains a story from Kaiserriech... Peace!


	21. Wake-Up Call

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Pandora's Box had been opened and now all the monsters had come out."
> 
> -Lisa Marie Rice
> 
> TRIGGER WARNING: The N-Word (used by the bad guy to drive home what a terrible person he is. Period-appropriate racism. You've been warned)

_ Edinburgh, Scotland _ _  
_ _ May 2027 _ _  
_ _ Earth-124 _

Allistor stirred lightly, vaguely aware of a steady beeping noise. Still unwilling to open his eyes, he waited as his senses gradually drifted back into clarity. There was a soft buzz of an air conditioner, and the air he was breathing felt cool and processed, and light on his bruised lungs. He was laying down on something soft, and he felt a slight tugging sensation on the inside of his right elbow. It took him a few seconds, but he eventually pieced it together that he was in hospital. Why was he in-?

Allistor gasped as he bolted into an upright position, then groaned as pain tore through his gut and he sank back onto the pillow. “Allistor!” someone said to his left, and Allistor noticed Francis sitting at his bedside, now looking down at him worriedly, “How do you feel,  _ mon amie? _ ”

Allistor groaned, then murmured, “Like I got hit by a truck.”

Francis smiled wryly, then called for a doctor. Soon, a kindly looking man in a white lab coat came in, flashing a small torch in Allistor’s eyes. “How are you, Mr. Kirkland?” the doctor asked him, “Can you remember anything? Any residual pain?”

“Pain’s still definitely there,” Allistor answered him, following the light with his eye, And I’d say I’ll have a hard time forgetting what that bastard did to me.”

“What did he do?” Francis asked from the side, “Did he say anything? Do you have any idea where he is now? … where he might have taken Arthur?”

Allistor shook his head sadly as the doctor jotted something down on his clipboard. “I’m sorry, Francis, I am,” he said sadly, “But he never said anything about Arthur, his favorite subject was always himself. How much he loved that knife of his, or how long it had taken to kill his version of me, you, us. And I… don’t think you want all the gory details on what he did.”

Francis frowned, then waited as nurses busied themselves about Allistor’s bedside. “Well, Mr. Kirkland,” the doctor said finally, “I’d say you’re healing quite well for a man that should be dead at the moment. More blood came out of you than most people have blood. But, given a few more days rest and plenty of painkillers, I expect you’ll make a full recovery.”

“Thank ye, doctor,” Allistor said, swinging his legs over the side of his bed to stand up, only for them to collapse under his weight and send him crashing to the very cold, very hard ground.

“Hey now!” the doctor cried, pulling him up and sitting him back in bed, “That was  _ not _ an invitation for you to get up! I said  _ a few more days rest _ , Mr. Kirkland! I and only I will be the judge of when you will be allowed to leave this bed!”

Allistor grumbled lowly, but he rubbed his bruised nose and sat back down. “Francis, what’s going on out there? Where are the others?” he asked his old friend, and Francis sighed.

“Well, we met Monsieur Wilhelm,” he said, “He is a doppelganger of Germany, from a world where the German Empire won the First World War. Currently, on his world, he is working with an alternate Canada and Algeria to beat back what I assume are Communists in France and Britain, as well as the Russians. His Albert Einstein built a machine capable of multiversal transport, and he and Canada journeyed to this world to seek help. However, there was a malfunction, and they were separated. We believe that ISIS is using this machine to bring other doppelgangers here, much like the alternate Arthur you met recently.”

“That’s… not what I was expecting,” Allistor said finally, “And everyone else is…?”

“Alfred and Wilhelm went to investigate where were found you,” Francis said, “And Patrick went with Alexander to Arthur’s house in Birmingham. None of them have come back yet.”

Allistor frowned, then looked out the window at the streets below. “Something’s not right,” he said absentmindedly, “Something’s… off.”

“There’s apprehension everywhere,” Francis said soothingly, patting his arm, “It is natural, given the shock the humans have just received.”

“No, this is something specific,” Allistor said, more assertively this time. He could feel it now, the coldness in his gut, the light nausea. Something was wrong with the people of Scotland. “Turn on the news, now!”

Startled, Francis fumbled for the remote and turned on the hospital room’s small television, turning it to the BBC. “Shocking news out of America from just a few moments ago!” the anchor said, her face ashen as pictures appeared on the screen of New York City Hall, “An unknown armed militia has seized New York City Hall in Lower Manhattan, and reports have confirmed that the mayor, the Honorable Leonard Margulies, has been killed. It is unknown what these militiamen want, but they are wearing strange armor that our experts have never seen before. This news is breaking, so we here at the BBC remind the viewers that not all details are available at the present time-- wot? Just a mo’... ladies and gentlemen at home, we have a camera on the ground, bringing the situation to you live. Be warned, the following footage may not be suitable for small children.” The anchor disappeared, replaced by a grainy video of the NYPD surrounding City Hall, supplemented by New York State Troopers and even the National Guard.

“Unidentified insurgents!” someone called through a megaphone, “This is Major General Steven Ferarri of the 42nd Infantry! Come out quietly, or we will be forced to enter the building!”

There was silence in response. Then, at the flagpoles on top of the buildings, Allistor and Francis noticed something being run up. The cameraman noticed, too, panning up and zooming in. “What  _ is  _ that?” someone in the crowd asked, and the flag unfurled in the wind. It had a full-length blue stripe down the left side, with thirteen red and white stripes on the other side. In the blue field, an eagle splayed its wings, clutching an axe in its talons, with a crown of stars above its head. It was a perverted form of the American flag, updated to fit the totalitarian ideology. “Oh my God…” someone else murmured, and on a different flagpole the crowd gasped as a body was run up the pole, hung by a noose. Mayor Lenny.

“Jesus  _ Christ _ …” the cameraman murmured, “Who  _ are  _ these guys?” Just then, there was an earth-shattering boom as the camera shook. Screams were heard, and in a cloud of rubble the camera cut to static.

“Tim?  _ Tim!? _ ” the anchor from before cried emotionally, and the tv showed her stood up at her desk, looking panicked. Realizing she was back on air, she sank slowly into her chair, and in a quiet voice said, “More on this story later.” BBC cut to commercial.

“Oh…  _ Mon Dieu _ …” Francis whispered, and the whole hospital stood in a shocked silence. New York City was under attack.

* * *

_ Edinburgh, Scotland _ _  
_ _ May 2027 _ _  
_ _ Earth-124 _

Alfred gasped and held his stomach as he collapsed, groaning in pain. All of a sudden his insides were on fire, like there was an explosion. Screams filled his head, and in a flash of dizziness and pain he saw New York City Hall in flames, the entire left wing reduced to rubble. People were trapped, screaming, there was panic everywhere--

“ _ Herr Amerika!! _ ” Wilhelm’s cry finally broke through the din and Alfred snapped back to reality.

“There’s… there’s been an attack,” he gasped, his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath, “New York City’s been attacked!”

“New York City?” Wilhelm asked incredulously, “But I thought America was safe in this world?”

Alfred shuddered as he remembered two enormous towers crumbling to the ground in a heap of fire and smoke. “Nowhere’s safe,” he said, “Look, it-it doesn’t matter!” He struggled to stand, pulling himself up with a nearby streetlamp, “We need to get back to others! We need to get to New York and put a stop to this!”

Wilhelm nodded, then looped Alfred’s arm over his shoulders, carrying him back to the hospital. “Come,  _ mein freund _ , let’s get you home,” he said grimly, carrying the crippled American through the streets of Edinburgh.

* * *

_ Unity Hill, District of Columbia _ _  
_ _ May 2027 _ _  
_ _ Earth-124 _

Alan was resting comfortably around the table with Florida, Kentucky, Nevada, and South Dakota, playing a round of Poker. “Hmm…” he hummed to himself, looking at his hand, “I think I’ll… fold for this round.”

Nevada, who was acting as dealer, barked out a short laugh. “You feeling alright, Yorkie?” Diego Jones asked him, “Not like you to shy away from the pot.”

Alan rolled his eyes, “Not all of us feel like losing our life savings to Las Vegas, Diego. I’m perfectly fine with sitting this one out--  _ khough! _ ” Alan stopped short as he suddenly coughed blood onto his hand, staring down at the red stain rapidly spreading across the table.

“Alan!?” Florida asked worriedly, then stood up quickly as the New Yorker started coughing up more blood, “Alan! Archie, go get Delaware!” As Kentucky quickly fled the room to go fetch their medically-trained sibling, Marcos Jones helped Diego and Faith lay Alan down, turning him on his side so that he wouldn’t choke.

“What’s wrong with him?” Faith asked urgently, checking the New Yorker’s forehead for fever.

“I don’t know!” Florida responded frustratedly, wishing he could do more. The only adult out of all the states, and he was still powerless!

“Out of the way!” Alden Jones, the Personification of Delaware, cried as he ran up with his medical bag. Alden made some cursory checks, then started bringing out painkillers and stabilizing agents. “Alan, can you hear me?” he asked clearly and calmly, well-practiced in the art of medicine, even while under pressure.

“D-Del?” Alan asked feebly, his head still swimming with pain as blood ruined his finely-pressed suit, “Del, something’s wrong, there’s an attack… the City… it’s been attacked…”

Delaware looked at Florida meaningfully, and Marcos jumped up to go turn on the tv. The States watched in horror as the bloody aftermath settled over the City That Never Sleeps, and Alan coughed up more blood. In the crowd, Alabama rubbed at a sudden pain on his forearm, too preoccupied to care what it was about.

* * *

_ Birmingham, England _ _  
_ _ May 2027 _ _  
_ _ Earth-124 _

“What’s up?” Patrick asked Alexander as they walked back to the car they had taken from Scotland.

“What do you mean?” the Southerner responded, absentmindedly rubbing at a spot of discomfort at the base of his left shoulder.

“You’ve rubbed your shoulder a few times now,” Patrick informed him, “Something wrong back home?”

“Have I?” Alexander asked, looking down at where his left arm used to be. Now that he was aware of it, he  _ did  _ feel the slight spot of pain there. Pain in his left shoulder usually meant something was wrong in Alabama… “Maybe… we should start heading home,” he said slowly, trying to concentrate on it. What he felt was a familiar sensation, something like…  _ power _ .  _ Sweet, intoxicating, raw  _ **_power_ ** . Alexander shivered.

“Everything alright?” Patrick asked worriedly, starting to get concerned.

“I… No, no I don’t think so,” he responded quietly. He hadn’t felt a sensation like that since… well, since 1865. What had set that off?

* * *

_ Montgomery, Alabama _ __  
_ May 2027 _ _  
_ __ Earth-124

William Jones was disgusted by this new world. Back on his Earth, things were good and proper: the Confederacy had gained its independence in the Confederate Revolution. Within four years they had captured Washington and ransomed President Lincoln for their independence. After that, they set about bringing the Confederacy into the Modern Age, conquering Mexico and the Caribbean until they had formed the glorious Confederacy of the Golden Circle, of which William was the proud personification. However, when he was so rudely torn from his world and forced to come here, he discovered that the Dixie of  _ this  _ world had been letting his standards slip drastically. Not only was the Negro Race free, but he had the same stature as the obviously superior White Man! And don’t even get him  _ started  _ on the  _ women! _

As William walked though this alternate Montgomery, a negro dared to look him in the eye as he passed. Raising his cane, he flung it into the bastard’s head. “Learn to respect your betters,  _ boy! _ ” he cried, and the man yelled as blood started pouring down the side of his face.

“Agh,  _ fuck! _ You crazy bastard!” the negro shouted, then turned to a white woman, crying, “Call the police!”

“The police?” William asked incredulously, “Why would the police arrest me for teaching some disrespectful, dirty little negro a lesson?”

“Oh, leave him alone, you racist pig!” a scantily-clad woman with blue hair shouted to his left, and a memory struck William.

“Oh,  _ that’s  _ right,” he sighed, shaking his head and laughing, “Apologies, ma'am, I forgot you  _ nigger-lovers _ cling to some silly idea called ‘Social Justice’ in this world. Not to worry, ma'am, not to worry…” William pulled out a pistol and shot her point blank in the face, then killed the black man and the woman who tried to call the police on him. People screamed and ran. “ **_We’ll sort that right out,_ ** ” William whispered murderously, holding the still-smoking gun. He’d set this wretched world right. Even if he had to kill everyone in Dixie to do it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ta-da! Racism! Yup, William's a dick. If I'm making the Extreme Left the bad guy, you better gosh barn believe I'm gonna make the Extreme Right the bad guy too. We hate everyone equally here, folks. Extremism in all its forms is bad. Don't follow Commies and don't follow racists.
> 
> See y'all next week!


	22. All in the Family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You think the only people who are people, are the people who look and think like you; but if you walk the footsteps of a stranger, you'll learn things you never knew you never knew."
> 
> -Disney's "Pocahontas"

_ Unknown Location, Middle East _ __  
_ May 2027 _ _  
_ __ Earth-124

Klaus huddled up next to the unconscious Matt Williams as the desert night settled in, the temperature dropping drastically. He shivered, suddenly regretting his choice of clothing; then again, his kidnappers hadn’t left him with much anyway. Once they had found out what sort of man he was, they had refused to return the bundles of cloth he used to bind his chest, nor did they let him do up his hair how he preferred. They had taunted him, saying he was against nature, that he was a freak. But Klaus didn’t feel like a freak, he felt like he finally knew who he was. After the uncertainty of his childhood, the adventures in the woods we would go on with his friend Hungary, when his father Germania suggested that he might feel more comfortable in breeches than a skirt Klaus had felt liberated. No more staying in the house while Vater went out to fight or hunt, no more sitting on the sidelines and being underestimated because of how he looked or how he was born. He was allowed to go out, to participate, to see the world for all its wonders. They were some of the greatest days of his life. 

But when people found out, they always treated him differently. They gave him a wide berth, stopped talking to him unless he approached them first, and they were always on edge. And those were the best case scenarios; sometimes, Klaus would run into people like Muhammad and his men, who would mock him and demean him, try to make him feel ashamed of who he was. But Klaus was not ashamed; Klaus was Klaus. Then again, there were also people like Matt; kind, generous people, who were doing their best to understand. Matt had mistaken him for a girl at first, but that was hardly his fault; it wasn’t as if Klaus had any method of correcting him. When he revealed himself as a man, Matt had been thrown, but he’d respected him all the same, still tried his hardest to save him, even if he wasn’t who he seemed. Klaus… hadn’t met a person like that before. A good person. A nice person. A warm, safe person… 

Without realizing it, Klaus had been resting his head on the Canadian’s shoulder, daydreaming. Jolting upright, he stared at Matt, fearful he might wake, but he merely snored softly, his head lolling to the side adorably. Klaus giggled softly, then felt a cold stone drop in his gut as he realized he had just called Matt  _ adorable.  _ Shaking his head vehemently, Klaus dispelled his mind of such thoughts. There was absolutely no possible way that he  _ liked  _ Matt Williams like that; he was just grateful for the rescue, and the comfort while imprisoned, that was all. It was perfectly natural, platonic gratitude. Nothing romantic about it. Absolutely not. Nope. Never. Klaus would  _ never  _ be caught thinking about how hard Matt’s muscles had felt when he was carrying him, or of how manly he looked with the scruffy stubble beard he had.  _ Sheisse! _ Okay, that was the last time. No more. 

Klaus sighed, then huddled up to Matt again, looking for warmth; it was getting terribly cold in the cave, but he knew it would balance out by being sweltering hot in the morning. Klaus closed his eyes, trying for some sleep. Just then, as he was about to drift off into dreams that involved a suspiciously Matt-like figure, his eyes snapped open as he heard talking from outside. “Are you sure they came this way, Benjy? You aren’t exactly the best tracker around,” one of them said, by the sounds of it a teenage male. And speaking English, not Arabic. Maybe it was the two boys who’d gone back for their siblings during the escape? Just in case, Klaus picked up his gun again, silently creeping toward the cavemouth. 

“I can track enough to get by,  _ Trevor _ ,” the kid that must have been Benjy retorted, his voice growing closer, “And unless  _ you’re  _ volunteering, we follow my lead. They can’t have gone far, wounded as he was. This is the closest cave, as near as I can figure.”

“How do we know they even came this direction?” a third voice asked irritably, now just outside. Klaus took up a position just behind the corner of the cavemouth, waiting. 

“Because of the pile of  _ bodies  _ at the door, Rob, now would you quit your bitching for  _ once  _ in your life?” Benjy asked.

“What? Worried about your  _ Sugar Daddy,  _ traitor?” Trevor taunted him.

“Canada is  _ not  _ my  _ Sugar Daddy! _ ” Benjy sniped back, “The Entente are my allies, he just happens to be head of the faction. I’m an equal, just like Algeria, Australasia, and India.”

“ _ Sure _ ,” a fourth voice muttered, “ _ Just like Algeria _ . Dumbass.”

“ _ Wanna say that to my face, lumberjack!? _ ” Benjy screeched, now halfway in the cave, whirled around to face his antagonizer; he hadn’t noticed Klaus yet. 

“ _ Bring it on, pinecone! _ ” the antagonizer shouted back, and before anything more could erupt, Klaus made his move. In one swift motion, he grappled with Benjy and took him down, pinning him to the ground, then pointed his gun up at a startled Rob. The other two, who must have been Trevor and Todd, pulled their own weapons.

“Hey, hey, easy, Silent But Deadly!” Rob said defensively, “It’s us! Remember? We helped you escape from that rocky asscrack?”

Klaus narrowed his eyes at that particular nickname again, but got up off of New England. “Ow, jeez, how about a little gratitude, eh?” Benjy grumbled as he climbed to his feet and brushed himself off. After Todd and Trevor had put away their weapons, Klaus motioned them inside. Here, Klaus could finally take in their uniforms; Benjy wore a dark green uniform, with a pinetree insignia, Rob a yellow one with a bear and star, and Todd and Trevor wore matching blues, their shoulders adorned with classic American flags. Judging from how they had interacted with each other, and how Matt had described the history of his world, these four were on different sides of the American Civil War, but had put aside their differences for some reason. Why could that be, Klaus wondered?

He was torn from his thoughts as Benjy knelt beside Matt, still unconscious, and started inspecting him. Instinctively, Klaus raised his gun again. “Yikes! Lay off, would’ja? I’m just checking on him!” Benjy yelped as he raised his hands, and Klaus sighed as he lowered his weapon again. What was with that knee-jerk reaction to protect Matt? Still, though, after the New Englander stood up again, seeming satisfied with his examination, he turned back to the group. “He’s out cold, and we can’t move him until he’s up and moving again. We’re gonna be here another few days, at least,” he said matter of factly.

“What, just like that?” Trevor asked, “No food, no water?”

“You’ve all got food in your packs,” Rob muttered, “And we can ration it out to share with the civilian.”

Klaus shot him a dirty look. He was  _ not  _ a  _ civilian! _ Rob just rolled his eyes at him in response. Klaus huffed and crossed his arms; the  _ nerve  _ of some people!

“Fine, fine,” Trevor muttered, removing his pack to fish out his rations, “But I’m not sharing any of my stuff with you traitors.”

“Traitor?  _ Me!? _ ” Rob growled, “ _ You two  _ are the ones who climbed aboard MacArthur’s burning ship!  _ I  _ was the one trying to keep democracy alive!”

“Democracy would have still endured!” Todd said defensively, “MacArthur was only given emergency powers! He would have stepped down after the war, like Cincinnatus!”

“Or he would have turned America into an empire, like Caesar,” Benjy said flatly, taking a bite of hardtack.

“Oh, fuck off, it’s not like you’ve been doing anything important in this war!” Trevor jabbed.

“I’ve been defending my  _ home! _ ” Benjy shouted back, “By any means necessary!”

“And look where  _ that’s  _ gotten us,” Rob sighed as he slumped against the cave wall, exhausted, “Lost in the desert, on a foreign world years in the future from our own, cooped up with each other on low supplies of food and water. Great job, everybody. War’s going  _ great. _ ”

“You’re  _ killing me  _ with the negativity, Rob,” Trevor shook his head as he sat down as well. Rob shrugged in response. Klaus merely sighed as he sat back down next to Matt; this should be an interesting conversation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back! Sorry for the hiatus last week, I was attending Halloween parties and trying to keep up with homework and the election. But I'm back now! Enjoy some more 2P PruCan and KR States interaction! Also, yes, Klaus is trans dude hitting on a guy from the 40s, why do you ask?


	23. You Are Camelot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Myths are not stories that are untrue; instead, they are tales that do not fit neatly with the historical record."
> 
> -Unknown

_ Unknown Location _ _   
_ _ Unknown Time _ _   
_ _ Unknown Earth _

Arthur Kirkland sat and stared at Merlin for what seemed like ages, the silence settling between them. Finally, Arthur realized the ridiculousness of it all, and his temper flared. “Camelot?” he said incredulously, “The fabled kingdom of King Arthur?  _ Yes _ , I’ve bloody well heard of it, just like every child in the world above the age of six! What the bloody hell does  _ Camelot _ have to do with  _ anything!? _ ”

Merlin merely chuckled and shook his head good-naturedly, as if Arthur were a child that had said something particularly amusing. “My liege, it has  _ everything  _ to do with  _ everything _ ,” he said calmly, his ruby red eyes piercing through Arthur’s forest green, “Camelot is a story, just as real as you or I. And stories like Camelot have immense power attached to them.”

“ _ Camelot is a myth! _ ” Arthur roared, standing up in a fury, “ _ A children’s tale! It. is. not.  _ **_REAL!_ ** ”

Merlin was unphased by the Englishman’s fury, merely steepling his hands in a contemplative gesture. “Why is it that you are so opposed to the idea of myths being fact, Arthur?” he asked, and Arthur  _ snapped. _

_ “ _ **_BECAUSE THEY WERE SUPPOSED TO BLOODY WELL COME BACK, WEREN’T THEY!?!_ ** ,” he screamed, and suddenly he couldn’t stop himself as he went off on his tirade, pacing around and shouting to Merlin, “All the stories, all the myths end saying that he’ll come back, don’t they? Resting in Avalon until England’s time of need? I’VE HAD MY FUCKING TIME OF NEED!! Where was King Arthur when the Danes were pillaging my island for all it was worth, eh? Where were the Knights of the Round Table when the Luftwaffe firebombed London to the  _ bloody ground!? _ Why didn’t Sir Lancelot ride in on a white stallion with water during the Great Fire!? If any of what you are saying was true, they would have  _ fucking been there!!! _ ”

Merlin still met his gaze unflinchingly as Arthur finally winded down. “And that’s why I don’t believe in myths and fairy tales,” Arthur said scornfully, finally sitting back down, “Anything else for today, doctor? Perhaps you’d like to explore my childhood trauma, or get me to say I hate my parents?”

Merlin still looked at him, a placid smile on his face. “Are you finished, my liege?” he asked softly.

Arthur shifted, regaining his composure, “Yes. Yes, I suppose I am.”

Merlin nodded, “Good then. And you are correct; times of need have come and gone in England, and the Knights of Camelot were not there…” Merlin tilted his head slightly, looking Arthur dead in the eye, “But you were.”

Arthur stared at him. “What?” he asked quietly.

“ _ You _ were there, Arthur, don’t you see?” Merlin asked fervently, leaning forward with excitement, “ _ You  _ were the one bringing water for the Great Fire!  _ You  _ were the one standing tall beneath the firebombs of the Luftwaffe!  _ You  _ were the one resisting the Danelaw! It is not a matter of waiting for King Arthur to arrive, my liege, because he has been by England’s side  _ all this time! _ ”

Arthur stared at Merlin. “I… I don’t understand,” he said carefully. Was Merlin implying what he thought he was? Could it really be…?

Merlin sighed and rolled his eyes, “My liege, isn’t it obvious?  _ You are King Arthur! You are Camelot! _ ”

And Arthur felt something in his soul, like a mighty dam, shatter to a million fragments. In his head, a voice spoke loud and clear, rumbling as if from a far off mountain:  _ He’s right, you know. _

Arthur shivered, then tentatively thought,  _ King Arthur? _

An image struck him of a blond man wearing a crown, one that looked nearly identical to him, with a crest of a dragon and three crowns on his chest. The king smiled at him,  _ Hello, England. It is a pleasure to meet you face to face… so to speak. _

Arthur shivered and held his head in his hands. “God damn it all…” he whispered, starting to shake from the strain of it all, “I’ve finally gone insane, haven’t I?”

Merlin sighed and held his shoulder, “No, Arthur, you are not insane. King Arthur is merely an extension of yourself, that I have given consciousness to in order to expedite the timetable. I apologize, but if you do not come to grips with your true power soon, it could spell doom for us all. And… I must apologize further, because it seems our time is at an end for now; I must return you to that twisted mirror’s clutches, lest he get suspicious of your nonactivity. Try to hold on a little longer, Arthur, and I swear… I will explain everything. For now… do try to get along with the voice in your head.”

And just like that, Arthur was back in his chair, the headphones still over his ears, the blindfold still over his eyes. Arthur thrashed about, trying to free himself in a moment of desperation, but it was no use. Giving a cry of frustration that not even he could hear, he shook and stamped the ground as hard as he could. There was simply no way in hell that he could  _ be  _ Camelot… was there?

* * *

_ Mount Olympus, Greece _ __   
_ May 2027 _ _   
_ __ Earth-124

The wind howled and the snow fell in sheets as two figures struggled up the mountainside of one of the most mythically significant places on Earth, the fabled Mount Olympus. Said to be the home of the old Greek gods, its snowy peak and rough terrain made it all the more difficult to climb, but the two men were experienced. One had crossed the Alps in his youth, alongside an entire army and even a platoon of war elephants. The other had crossed many mountains in search of new lands to conquer and expand too, even coming to the mountains of Greece so long ago. Romulus Iulius Patricanus and Atlan Phameas trudged up the mountainside together, battling snow and wind without even a concern. They had braved far fiercer storms in their long lives.

As they neared the summit of the legendary mountain, Romulus held out his palm and lit a fire there, trying to throw light as far as he could. “There, Atlan!” he cried, pointing with his prosthetic hand, “The cave!” Atlan nodded, and the two continued upward, heading towards a small cavemouth in the mountainside. When they reached it, they stepped inside, finally out of the wrath of Mother Nature.

“Hello?” Atlan called into the dark, “Is anyone there?” His voice echoed and reverberated off the walls, no response coming back to him. Romulus took a tentative step forward.

“B-Basilius?” he called, “ _ Mi fili? _ ”

Finally, the two heard footsteps. Tensing, they drew their weapons, and Romulus flared up the fire in his palm, throwing just a little more light into the cave. Out from the shadows, a young man in a purple cloak stepped into the light, his medieval armor glinting in the firelight. A long cavalry sword hung at his hip, and an hourglass shield rested on his back. His lavender eyes glinted hard as steel in the dim light, and Basilius Constantinus Patricanus stared down his father and his lover. Finally, he took a short breath and said, “You two shouldn’t be here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As both the author and a mature human being, all I have to say for this chapter is: SQUEEEEEEE!!


	24. Mirror, Mirror

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Mirror, mirror, on the wall, who's the fairest of them all?"
> 
> -Evil Queen, "Snow White"

_ Error 404 Page Not Found _ _   
_ _ May 2027 _ _   
_ _ Earth-124 _

Pepe had been working tirelessly in his escapades across the Internet, working closely with his liaison to the physical world, Benjamin Jones. Pepe had a… unique position. Where most countries were born on land they belonged to, from high ideals and notions given form, Pepe was an anomaly. He had no land to call his own, not even a physical form, just a general consciousness of code, born from the dawn of memes and online political activism. He was born from the trolls and the hackers, /pol/ and 4chan and all the neckbeards living in their parents’ basements who decided to take to the Internet and piss people off. To point out the flaws in society, to poke fun at Cancel Culture, and to mock Identity Politics. What had began as a simple altright meme board soon grew into a universally recognized and polarizing symbol, one of a poorly drawn frog named Pepe, and a mockery of the Nazi flag done up in green. The alt right trolls of the Internet decided to take the Left head on, mocking their insistence on Identity Politics by creating their own fake minority: Kekistanis, from the ancient and besieged land of Kekistan, capital of Kekstantinople, subjugated by neighboring Normistan. Thus, from this cacophony of lies, memes, and extremist ideology, Kekistan, the Meme Nation, the Most Powerful Country That Doesn’t Exist, came to be. 

Still, though, as much as Kekistan loved pissing off the Lefties and sticking to his usual tomfuckery, he always felt an inexplicable urge to rise to a higher calling, to wage war against something worthwhile, not just tracking down former Hollywood superstar Shia LaBeouf. That’s when he had met Ben; an actual,  _ real  _ personification of a physical territory, and one that was tech savvy enough to put Kek’s particular set of skills to good use. Ever since Mass and Kek had started texting, Kekistan had become the eyes and ears of the wayward state, relaying information from far and wide with the help of his loyal trolls. And now, he was being put to an even greater purpose: bringing down ISIS.

It had all started when Kekistan had heard whispers of something deep within the Dark Web, where only creeps like him dared lurk, that ISIS was trying to find someone, or something, that had been asleep for thousands of years. Something that could challenge them as the True Caliphate. Well, obviously, that piqued Kek’s fancy, and he contacted Mass with what he called “Operation Shadilay”: the chance to crack into the Middle East’s computer systems and try to find this Sleeping Beauty that would piss ISIS off so much. Ben gave him the all clear, and Kekistan got to work.

With the full might of 4chan and /pol/ behind him, Kekistan raided the firewalls of Iraq, Saudi Arabia, Palestine, Afghanistan, and Syria every night, searching for something, anything of Sleeping Beauty, but it had yet to yield results. Syria had been ruled out by now, along with Lebanon and the Gaza Strip. By now, he had narrowed it down to somewhere inland, in the heartland of Mesopotamia, but that still left a few million square miles on the board. He needed some sort of breakthrough, anything that could point him in the right direction, a name, a place,  _ something- _

Hello. What’s this? Pepe opened the file, a complete unknown origin that came out os seemingly nowhere. The only name attached to it was “Homer”. Weird. Pepe looked inside, and lo and behold…  _ Aadil Ibn La’Amad. _ A name. A NAME! Sleeping Beauty’s name! Pepe alerted /pol/, then texted Mass, excitement buzzing through his code. Finally, some action!

* * *

_ Unity Hill, District of Columbia _ _   
_ _ May 2027 _ _   
_ _ Earth-124 _

Ben was practically vibrating when he saw Kek’s text.  _ Aadil Ibn La’Amad! _ He knew that name! He had learned it when he had been cooped up with the others two years ago! He was the old Personification of Islam, the Father of the Islamic World. He had always been rumored to be missing or dead, but if he turned out to be still alive, and if he opposed ISIS… all the enemy’s plans would come crumbling down. True, they may have had bigger fish to fry at the moment what with the attack on New York, but if they could attack the problem at the root, this might be over before it could start.

Truth be told, Ben was still hesitant to trust Kekistan, and he wasn’t going to reveal his informant’s identity to anyone anytime soon, given the man’s reputation as a virulent extremist. But, this  _ was  _ war… and who better to fight a war in the Age of Information than a man made out of numbers? Ben nodded. War made strange bedfellows of everyone, that was why he was tolerating Kekistan. With any luck, ISIS and Kekistan would wipe each other out, and he wouldn’t have to worry about either of them. Besides, even if Kek somehow made it through the coming storm, Ben had a back up plan. An offer the memer couldn’t refuse, and yet one that he could never succeed. If ISIS didn’t kill him, the next job certainly would.

Ben shook himself. He shouldn’t think that way about his allies, no matter how crazy or violent they were. Kekistan may want to watch the world burn, but as long as that meant ISIS burning first, Ben could deal with that. Someone had to make the hard decisions, after all. And who else if not him?

* * *

_ Munich, Germany _ __   
_ May 2027 _ _   
_ __ Earth-127

Ludwig Beilschmidt had insisted that Italy stay with him after Alfred’s press conference had gone so wrong, and had hoped to ride out the storm as long as they could. However, when New York City was attacked, Ludwig could no longer stand by; he had been gathering supplies for the past couple hours, contacting other European countries to see who was willing to assist in the coming inevitable battle. Hungary, Spain, Denmark, Poland, Finland, Sweden, and Lithuania had all responded immediately, asking where to meet and when. France and Britain were already part of it. Norway and Romania offered to be on call as reserve. Austria had respectfully declined. Switzerland had told him to fuck off. All in all, Germany was confident in the number of allies he had managed to gather, and hoped that it would be enough for whatever threat was coming their way. “ _ Mi amore? _ ” Feliciano asked him from his place on the couch, pouting over the top of a cushion, “Are you sure you’re going to be alright?”

Ludwig sighed fondly, “I do not know,  _ meine liebe,  _ but at this point we do not have much choice. Herr Scotland had been attacked. Herr England has been kidnapped. New York City is in turmoil. We can sit on the sidelines no longer; this is now open conflict, whether we like it or not.” Feliciano sighed sadly, but said nothing more.

“Please, just… come back to me,  _ si? _ ” he whispered softly, almost too soft to hear, and Ludwig melted. He crossed the room in a few short strides and kissed Italy’s forehead, smiling at him.

“I swear it,” he said firmly, “This time, I will come back.” Feliciano smiled at him gratefully, and the doorbell rang. Ludwig went rigid, a mauser pistol shimmering into his hand. When he looked over, he saw his lover toting a stiletto dagger, eyes blood red and hard as flint, and couldn’t help but think of how attractive Italy looked with his serious face on. Shaking himself of such thoughts, Ludwig crept toward the door slowly, silently, the doorbell ringing all the while, becoming more urgent.

Ludwig stepped up to the door, closed his hand around the knob, and pulled it open, the gun held just behind his back. What greeted him was a tall, blond man with lavender eyes and a dark scarline down his face. He wore a reddish tinged corduroy cap, along with a white tank top and a tan jacket haphazardly thrown over his shoulders. The man smiled brightly at him, his teeth flashing just as bright as the silver Star of David around his neck, and he held out a hand in greeting. “ _ Guten Tag! _ ” the man said jovially, “The name’s Lutz, Lutz Beilschmidt! It’s a pleasure to meet you!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those that don't know, Kekistan is a loose collection of extremists, white supremacists, and Trump supporters hiding out on the Internet, wreaking havoc in the modern political landscape. Unsurprisingly, like everything else, Kekistan and its purpose is an incredibly charged issue, just like everything else, so I thought it would be best to make Pepe here the embodiment of "Chaotic Neutral". Pepe's just here to kill some Commies and watch the world burn because he finds it fun; his inclusion isn't meant to ruffle any feathers, but to cement the fact that the arena of warfare has changed drastically since the olden days. Like it or not, Kekistan is the Most Powerful Country That Doesn't Exist, and his actions will have some major ramifications for the story.
> 
> Also, I belatedly realized I forgot to do anything with the Europeans, so here's a little tidbit on what Ludwig's planning as well as the appearance of a wild Canon 2P Germany!


	25. World War III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Gentlemen... I. Love. War."  
> -The Major, Hellsing Ultimate Abridged

_ Manhattan, New York _ _   
_ _ May 2027 _ _   
_ _ Earth-127 _

Allen smirked as he kicked his feet up on the desk, leaning back in a bloodstained chair. He cracked his neck from side to side, then sighed as he settled into a more comfortable position. “Where are we on that broadcast?” he called into the next room, and a soldier turned to him and saluted. 

“Almost ready, sir, just a few more minutes,” she said, her voice heavily muffled by the voice filter in her suit, “Are you sure you wish to make this announcement so early? Our allies have only just begun to take action, and we are far ahead of schedule-”

“The others can go fuck themselves!” Allen snapped, his dark red eyes glinting coldly, “I do what I want! Don’t ever question me again, soldier! Now get that broadcast working or I’ll have you  _ court-martialed _ .”

The soldier blanched. “Y-yessir, sorry, sir!” she yelped, then she turned back to her work. Allen sighed, leaning back a little more. Just a few more minutes… He needed some Brown.

* * *

_ Edinburgh, Scotland _ _   
_ _ May 2027 _ _   
_ _ Earth-124 _

Alexander blanched when he saw Alfred leaning against Wilhelm for support as he and Patrick approached the hospital. “What happened!?” he asked fervently as he surged forward to check on his brother. 

“I do not know!” Wilhelm insisted, panic evident in the German’s voice, “Something happened in New York City! Herr Alfred collapsed!”

“New York? What could have happened in-?” Alexander started to ask, but Francis came running out of the hospital doors.

“New York City is under attack!” he cried to them, a little breathless from his hurried entrance, “It was just on the news, I think it’s another one of the 2Ps. I received a call from Spain, Germany is putting together a group of allies to help us fight; we should meet them in America.”

Alexander swayed on his feet. New York was under attack? It was 9/11 all over again, only this time, the attack wouldn’t stop at a few government buildings. The United States mainland was being invaded for the first time since the War of 1812. And he wasn’t anywhere near it to help. The Southerner shook his head, trying to gather his thoughts; he should have planned for this! He was a strategic mind if ever there was one, he needed a plan of attack and  _ fast _ . “R-right, right, okay, I’ve got something,” he said, half trying to convince himself that he did in fact have something, “We should meet up with Germany’s team, get to New York as fast as possible, get Alfred back into fighting shape. We should also leave someone behind in Europe to continue the search for Arthur, he can’t be too far. We- we can do this, we just need to make up the lead they have on us. We need to act quickly.”

Alfred murmured something and staggered to his feet, pushing away from Wilhelm. “I-” he winced in pain as he tried to straighten his back, “I can fight.”

Patrick narrowed his eyes, “The hell you can! You can barely stand, Alfred!”

“If I can stand, then I can fight!” Alfred shot back, clenching his fist.

“ _ Amerique- _ ” Francis started, but he suddenly trailed off, his eyes going wide as he felt a searing lance of pain stab through his heart. Francis stumbled, coughing blood into his hand.

“Francis!?  _ Fuck _ ,” Alexander cried, kneeling down to catch the falling Frenchman before he hit the hard pavement, “What’s going on, Francis? Give us an update!”

Francis’s ocean blue eyes were clouded with pain, and he took a ragged breath. “P-Paris,” he gasped, “Something’s wrong in Paris! I- I can feel it, it feels like… like Napoleon…” He trailed off into a coughing fit.

Alexander, Patrick, and Wilhelm all looked at each other. “Just how many of these fuckers are there?” Ireland asked exasperatedly, cocking his gun.

“I  _ don’t know _ , Patrick!” Alexander sighed frustratedly, “Right now, I wish to Heaven that I did, but I  _ don’t! _ Fuck, alright- we should make contact with Germany’s team, send half of them to Paris, the other half to New York.”

“What about Arthur?” Alfred asked, still holding his side.

Alexander swore again, holding his head in frustration, “Fuck it, you stay and look for him, I don’t care! I just, I need some time to  _ fucking think-! _ ” At that moment, his cellphone rang. Snarling, he pulled it out, then saw that the call was coming from a payphone in… Montgomery, Alabama. The pain in his shoulder seemed more acute now, and Alexander scowled as he answered it.

“Hello?” he growled.

“Why, hello! I hope you’re not too angry about the unexpected call, it was a rather spur-of-the-moment decision,” a familiar, identical voice said in a low Southern drawl, and Alexander’s blood ran cold, “Have I caught you at a bad time?”

“ _ You son of a bitch-! _ ” Alexander began, and the Other Alexander laughed from his side of the line.

“Touchy, touchy! Have you forgotten your manners as well as your pride?” he asked, “I wonder, did you lose it at the same time as your arm, or were they separate occasions?”

“ _ You listen here, you little yellow-bellied coward! _ ” Alexander spat venomously into the phone, “ _ Whatever you’ve done, you’d best goddamn believe I’ll fucking stop you, no matter what! _ ”

“Alex, Alex!” his doppleganger sighed, “That’s no way to talk to a superior! My God, standards really  _ have  _ slipped here, haven’t they? Well, no matter, Alex, I’m here to set things right. Meet me in Memphis in three days’ time, and we’ll talk about how to improve your situation.”

“And if I refuse?” Alexander asked his double, lacing his voice with all the threat he could.

“Well, if you refuse, you should know that I’ve made some wonderful new friends! One is the spitting image of your darling daughter, and very dedicated to the cause! The other, well… let’s just say he likes a certain white hood you once wore.” Alexander paled drastically. It… it couldn’t be… could it? His double continued, “They seem very determined to wipe Dixie clean of the nigger race. Of course, businessman that I am, I find it much more profitable to keep them in chains, but if it benefited me in this instance, I’d be happy to let them lose a bit of merchandise and run loose in Memphis for a little while. At least until you show up in some foolhardy attempt to stop us.”

“WHO ARE YOU!?” Alexander snarled, his temper getting the better of him.

He could almost imagine his double smirking. “Your past, and your future, Alex,” he said smugly, “See you soon.” 

The line went dead. Alexander roared with rage and chucked his phone into the side of a nearby building, shattering it. 

“Herr Alexander…?” Wilhelm asked uncertainly, Patrick standing right beside him.

Alexander merely sighed a shaky breath and held his head in his hand. “ _ Fuck _ ,” he whispered. His whole world had just been turned on its head in a matter of seconds, and for once in his life, he didn’t have a plan.

* * *

_ Munich, Germany _ _   
_ _ May 2027 _ _   
_ _ Earth-124 _

Ludwig stared Lutz down hard, the pistol still pointed at the doppelganger’s chest. Lutz’s lavender eyes held a spark of uncertainty as he stared down at the mauser pistol, then drifted over to Italy’s stiletto dagger. “Yikes, do you mind? I come in peace!” he said amicably, trying for a smile, “I just wanted to meet you guys, since, you know, new world and all…” He trailed off as Ludwig unwaveringly held the pistol to his sternum. “Jeez, alright, alright, pat me down if you want, I’m not carrying any weapons!” Lutz relented, holding up his hands in surrender and annoyance.

“That doesn’t mean anything to people who can summon weapons at will,” Ludwig said coldly.

“ _ Endlich! _ He speaks!” Lutz cried, throwing his head back in laughter, “Can I come in now?”

Ludwig narrowed his eyes, then stepped back to allow Lutz in, slamming the door behind him, gun trained all the while. Lutz rocked back on his heels and took in the spartan apartment, whistling a nameless tune. “So…” he started awkwardly, “You and Italy, huh? That’s cool. Guess things are pretty different here. I, personally, don’t really like to get tied down, but I suppose I’m partial to America; have you  _ seen  _ how tight his ass is-?”

“Stop. Talking.  _ Now. _ ” Ludwig commanded, his voice measured and steady, “You are going to answer questions, not ask them. Are we clear?” Lutz stayed silent. Ludwig narrowed his eyes as Feliciano stood up and poked Lutz in the back with his stiletto. 

“The man  _ said _ ,” Feli said dangerously, “ _ Are we clear? _ ”

Lutz swallowed hard. “I’m sorry, am I allowed to talk? He gave kind of conflicting instructions-”

“Oh, for  _ Gott’s sake! _ ” Ludwig groaned, shaking his head, “You may talk  _ only  _ to answer questions, alright?”

Lutz breathed a sigh of relief, “ _ Ja _ , sure, okay.”

Just as Ludwig began to think of questions for their otherworldly visitor, the television turned itself on, displaying a perverted American flag that depicted an eagle with a crown of stars, an axe clutched in its talons.

Lutz jumped, then scrunched his eyes at it. “Whoa, what is that? An axe?”

“Not an axe,” Italy said, his voice shaking a little as he looked at the “American” flag, “a  _ fasces _ .”

“Fasces?” Lutz said questioningly, giving the Italian a sideways glance.

“An old Roman symbol of power,” Feliciano explained, “Mussolini used it as his symbol when he took power, so did Hitler and Francisco Franco. It was the namesake of fascism. Power above all.”

“Oh,” Lutz said, looking back at the screen, “Well. That’s probably not good, then.”

* * *

_ Unity Hill, District of Columbia _ _   
_ _ May 2027 _ _   
_ _ Earth-124 _

The States watched in apprehension as the strange flag on the screen gave way an image of a man that looked so much like Alfred Jones but so obviously  _ wasn’t _ . He had dark red hair, lip, ear, and nose piercings, and dark, evil red eyes filled with sadistic glee as he tapped whatever camera he was working with. 

“Hello? This thing on?” he asked, then, seemingly satisfied, took a step back, now in full view. “Hello, all you fine Nations, States, and lowly scum-sucking humans out there!” he said, spreading his arms wide like a gameshow host, “Welcome to the Book of Revelation! My name is Allen D Jones, and it is my distinct pride and supreme pleasure to announce the End of the World!”

* * *

_ Washington, District of Columbia _ _   
_ _ May 2027 _ _   
_ _ Earth-124 _

“Now, before you ask, no, I’m not your goody two-shoes America Alfred F Jones; I’m from a different world altogether. A better world. One where the great and powerful Free American Empire rules over all!” Allen continued, his voice growing more gleeful with every word.

President Bob O’Shea clenched his fists together so hard his fingers turned white while he watched it. “Get Alfred on the line, Hauser,” he growled to the Secret Service agent in the room, “Get him on the line  _ now. _ ”

* * *

_ Edinburgh, Scotland _ _   
_ _ May 2027 _ _   
_ _ Earth-124 _

“Now, as I’m sure you’re all well aware, my troops recently took over Lower Manhattan. This is just the first step on my road to my goal!” 

Alfred clenched his fists hard as he watched the broadcast on every electronic device in Edinburgh, grinding his teeth.

Allen smiled sickly as he continued on, “A few of you may be asking, and rightfully so, what the hell do I want? Why the hell am I here?”

* * *

_ Manhattan, New York _ __   
_ May 2027 _ _   
_ __ Earth-124

“Well, in my long, long life, I have been accused of  _ liking war, _ ” Allen said as he paced about his soapbox, laying all his acting skill on as thick as he could, “Well, I am here to dispel these rumors. I do not  _ like _ war… Ladies and gentlemen, I.  _ love. war! _

“Throughout my life, I have discovered  _ so many  _ forms of war…” he crooned as he continued on, stepping forward and gesturing with his arms, “You wake up in the morning, you get into your shitty car, and then you see a rich CEO, who works half as hard as you do, speed down the street in his Porsche- Class War!

“You make it to work, and you find out that the annual drug test is today, and you  _ just so happened  _ to take a puff of your one-hitter a couple nights ago before dinner with your wife’s  _ awful parents _ \- Drug War!

“But then-! Then, you find out that the only ones being test are your Black and Latino coworkers- Race War!

“Then you try to post about it on your Facebook, but all your friends start arguing about what’s  _ right _ and what’s  _ wrong _ \- Flame War!

“You finally get home, and you decide to relax by watching a program about: ‘Who gets the box?’ ‘What’s in the box?’ ‘How much is what’s in the box worth?’-- Storage Wars.” Allen chuckled to himself a bit before continuing on.

“What I am telling you, Nations of the world, is that I am a purveyor of  _ war _ . And with the help of my thousands-strong NeoNazi Free American Army, I am now at the precipice of my one, true goal…” 

He sighed longingly, then looked directly into the camera, revelling the feeling of dread that was settling over the planet. “You see,” he said, “I want a simple war. No class wars, no drug wars, no race wars, no flame wars, and CERTAINLY NO COLD WARS!!!” he broke character for a moment, sighing in agony, muttering, “ _ Blueballed for  _ **_forty years…_ ** ”

Looking back at the camera, he regained his composure, smiling maniacally. “What I want, dear people, is a war that only  _ I  _ can bring! A true war! An  _ American _ war! The sequel you’ve all been waiting for…!”

He splayed his arms wide, and a curtain dropped behind him, revealing the thousands upon thousands of soldiers standing in formation, “ **LADIES AND GENTLEMEN!** ” he shouted at the top of his lungs, 

“ **I! WANT! WORLD! WAR!** **_THREEEEE!!!!_ ** ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Allen's speech is direct rip from Team Four Star's Hellsing Ultimate Abridged, here's the original in full :https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YWeEZuiUtFA
> 
> AHHHH!! I came up with all this on a whim and now you're stuck with me!


	26. The Time for Action

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "No campaign plan survives first contact with the enemy"  
> -Graf Helmuth von Moltke the Elder

_ Edinburgh, Scotland _ __   
_ May 2027 _ _   
_ __ Earth-124

Francis groaned and coughed as his head pounded, and his chest throbbed with phantom pain. He felt like his capital was under attack, a sensation he had felt many times before, but not so intensely as this since 1940. Something was wrong. Dreadfully, dreadfully  _ wrong…  _ and yet everything felt so familiar. He felt the power, the satisfaction, the  _ domination  _ he had not felt since the days of Napoleon; what was going on in Paris? Then, of course, there was the call that Alexander had received, and the horrifying presentation that had apparently gone up worldwide, detailing the exact plans and capabilities of their enemies. As well as the madness that consumed them. 

He tried to sit up, then groaned again as he sank back to the concrete sidewalk, defeated by nausea. Francis was dimly aware of the other Nations freaking out around him; Alexander shaking in rage, Alfred remaining silent and stoic, Patrick doing his best to reign people in, and poor Wilhelm still totally lost, looking desolate. None of them were in any condition to formulate a plan. Francis would have to step up; to do that, however, he would first have to  _ get  _ up. He grunted with effort as he forced the pain from Paris out of his mind, sitting up and struggling to his feet. “Herr France?” Wilhelm asked, “Are you sure it is wise for you to be moving?”

“I’ll be alright, Wilhelm, it’s nothing major,” Francis responded, wiping blood from his mouth with his sleeve, “Something is wrong, but there’s no physical damage. No buildings or monuments have collapsed, not like in New York. I can stand.”

“I… I need to go to Memphis,” Alexander said in a quiet voice, and Francis turned to where the Southerner was kneeling on the sidewalk, staring down at the shattered remnants of his cell phone. He was holding his shoulder as if it were in pain.

“Why Memphis?” Patrick asked fervently, “Is something wrong in Tennessee?”

“I- yes, something’s wrong,” Alexander said, standing up and shaking himself, “Something’s very, very wrong. I need to be in Memphis as soon as possible. People are dying.”

Francis pursed his lips, turning instead to the northern brother. “I assume you’ll want to be in New York then? Fighting that… man?” he asked Alfred, and the American only nodded grimly.

“Like Alex said,” he said through gritted teeth, “People are dying.” Francis couldn’t help but notice how his adopted son was swaying on his feet, but he let it drop. 

“Go then,” Francis said, walking forward and cupping Alfred’s cheek, then Alexander’s, “Both of you. Protect your people. Fight the 2Ps. Beat them.”

Gray and blue eyes, each as determined as the other, met his gaze unflinchingly. “I will,” the Americans promised him. Alfred gritted his teeth and straightened his back, clenching his fists. Alexander’s rifle shimmered onto his back, and he set his cap straight on his head. Both his boys saluted, then turned on their heels and marched away, each going to face certain death to defend their nation. 

“So where does that leave us?” Patrick asked from behind him as Francis watched the two go, “What do we do?” 

Francis turned back to him, meeting his eyes, then looking to Wilhelm. “We should handle European affairs,” he said finally, “We need to do three things. One, we need to find Arthur. Two, we need to regroup with Germany and the others. Three, we need to get to Paris and figure out what’s going on there. New York and Memphis are not the only places the 2Ps have caught us off guard.”

“I’m sorry,” Wilhelm said softly, the German’s eyes still downcast. He seemed totally crushed by the recent events, his previous fascination with the modern world replaced with overwhelming guilt. “I have brought my war to your world…” he said sadly, desolate hopelessness lacing his voice.

“Oh, Wilhelm,” Francis sighed sadly, kneeling next to him, “You are not to blame,  _ mon amie _ . You only came seeking help for a dying world; no one can blame you for wanting to save your planet. Once we recover from this opening bout, rest assured: we  _ will  _ come to your aid.”

Wilhelm smiled at him. “ _ Danke, Frankreich _ ,” he said shakily, his smile a lopsided, tired thing, “I… thank you.”

“Come,” Francis said, holding out his hand as he stood up, “We have work to do.” Wilhelm’s tired smile turned to a determined grin, and he took Francis’s hand, standing up.

“You know,” he said musingly, “It really is nice, being on the same side as you for a change. We’ve come to blows too many times before.”

Francis smiled at him, “Yes, together, Ludwig and I achieved great things. Have you ever heard of the European Union?”

“Actually, Einstein studied it a little bit when we were still probing your world,” Wilhelm said enthusiastically, the light coming back to his eyes, “And Herr New York discussed it with me when I arrived! It’s a wonderful system! I wish Mitteleuropa could one day work together so seamlessly like that.”

“Give it time,” Patrick butted in, cleaning his gun and checking for jams, “It took us ages to get along. And we needed a common enemy in Russia to do it.”

“Yes, well,” Wilhelm said, his attitude faltering a bit once more, “Common enemies is something we seem to have an abundance of these days.”

“It’ll get better, mate,” Patrick assured him, slinging his gun over his shoulder, “Just give it some time.”

Wilhelm nodded determinedly, then turned back to Francis. “How soon can we get to Paris?” he asked.

“The private jet we took here should still be waiting for us on the tarmac,” Francis said, beginning to walk towards the airport, “If not, then we can go south to London quickly enough and catch a flight from there.” And so the trio set off, racing through Edinburgh to the airport, unable to stop and help the Scots who were freaking out around them. The world had just received a crushing blow, and if they were to stop it, they must treat the cause, not just the symptoms. The time for planning was over. The time for action had come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh man, it's been a while, hasn't it? I swear, I haven't forgotten about this, it's just I've really been making this up as I go. :P Luckily, though, I think I've finally finalized how I want this story to work, so things should get more consistent! Sorry if it's been a little confusing up until now, I was kinda bouncing from cool scene to cool scene. But hey! Mistakes are meant to be corrected! Rest assured, the Revelation Series has returned in full force from our Holiday Hiatus, and hopefully we'll knock it outta the park! See y'all next week!


	27. Realization

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Life is full of screwups. You're supposed to fail sometimes. It's a required part of the human existence."  
> -Sarah Dessen, "Along for the Ride"

_ Washington, District of Columbia _ _   
_ _ May 2027 _ _   
_ _ Earth-124 _

President O’Shea tapped his finger against his desk as he waited on the line for the fifth time, listening to the dial tone drone on and on. For the past three hours, reports had flooded in from New York, casualty counts, National Guard mobilization progress, attempts and failures at identifying the occupiers. Generals and chiefs of staff had been in and out of his office at a near constant pace, talking a lot but saying nothing at all. It made O’Shea sick to his stomach, knowing that his country was under attack, and yet he could do nothing but sit behind his desk and nod at the occasional good idea. Experts and military advisors had been talking to him all morning, but O’Shea knew only one man had the answers he needed: Alfred F Jones. 

And that was why he cursed and slammed the phone back down onto the receiver after the fifth consecutive time he had merely reached Alfred’s voicemail. Surely, being the most powerful man in the world entitled him to the common courtesy of not being ghosted!? “God  _ damn  _ it, Alfred!” he exclaimed, startling the Secret Service agent beside him, who then only looked at his feet uncomfortably, “I mean-- who even ghosts the president, anyway!? Hauser, tell Congress I want my Caller ID changed to ‘FUCKING ANSWER THIS, DIPSHIT!’” 

Hauser continued looking at his feet pointedly, mumbling, “I’ll tell Congress that, sir.”

O’Shea sighed as he came off his rage high, holding his head in his hands. “Nah, belay that, Hauser,” he muttered snidely, “I wouldn’t wish Congress on my worst enemy, let alone you.”

Hauser smiled a little at that, “Thanks, sir.”

O’Shea cracked his neck and sat back in his chair, sighing again. “Tell me again what’s going on in New York,” he said defeatedly, already knowing the answer.

Hauser saluted, then laid out a few files on the desk in front of him. “Sir,” Hauser acknowledged, “36 hours ago, an unidentified armed militia appeared out of nowhere, led by a man we have since identified as Allen D Jones. We believe him to be a Nation, sir.” Hauser tapped a photograph of the man in question.

“And he looks nearly identical to Alfred…” O’Shea muttered, looking into the blood red eyes that stared up at him from the photo.

“Yes sir,” Hauser said, shifting his feet, “The militia, led by Jones, seized New York City Hall in Lower Manhattan. The first known casualty is Mayor Leonard Margulies, whose body was run up the flagpole of the building, alongside this henceforth unknown standard, though it bares a striking resemblance to-”

“The flag of the Silver Legion of America, a WWII-era fascist movement that never gained any steam thanks to Pearl Harbor,” O’Shea finished for him. Hauser looked at him for a moment, and O’Shea shrugged, “I’m a history nerd. Sue me.”

Hauser nodded, then continued, “After seizing City Hall, the militia blew the south wing of the building, sending rubble into the streets and killing many civilians in the crowd that had gathered there. At this point, New York’s National Guard had already been mobilized, alongside the New York Police Department. Casualty reports are still coming in, but as of thirty minutes ago the last count was fifty dead, unknown wounded. One hour ago, after disappearing after this attack, Jones highjacked worldwide communications with unknown equipment, and broadcasted a message both naming him and his organization, and identifying his motive.”

“World War III,” O’Shea muttered, “What a crazy bastard.”

Hauser snorted derisively, “Ya got that right, sir.” O’Shea raised an eyebrow at him, and Hauser cleared his throat and continued on, resuming the air of professionalism. “Uh, yes, sir. After this broadcast was complete, Jones’s militia fully engaged the National Guard and the NYPD, and fighting has spread throughout Manhattan. Evacuation efforts are underway, but… it’s eight million people, sir.”

“We’ll lose some,” O’Shea sighed sadly, looking at the map of New York City in front of him.

Hauser grit his teeth, “We’ll lose a lot. The National Guard and the NYPD are totally outpaced, this militia, they’re… highly advanced, sir. We’re outclassed.”

O’Shea’s head snapped up. “Us? Outclassed?” O’Shea stood up in a rage, “Hauser, we are  _ Americans! _ We are the world’s preeminent military power, we have been for a century! How is it possible for us to be outclassed by some assclown that popped up out of nowhere!?”

Hauser took a deep breath, “The best our experts have is… given what Jones said in the broadcast, and the sudden appearance of this highly advanced militia, that this attack… comes from a world not our own.”

“Aliens?” O’Shea said in disbelief, and Hauser tried to clarify.

“Not aliens exactly, sir, it’s… Multiverse Theory. We think that there may be an Einstein-Rosenberg Bridge in play, and that this army may have crossed it from their world into ours-”

O’Shea merely sighed and sank into his chair, holding his head in misery. “Of course the alien invasion had to happen during  _ my  _ presidency…” he muttered.

Hauser sighed, then walked around the desk to pat the president on the back. “There there, sir, I’m…” he searched for the right words, “I’m sure it’ll be okay.”

“Hauser, can you-” O’Shea sighed again, “Can you get my husband on the phone? I just- I need to hear his voice.”

Hauser smiled with pity for the man, then picked up the phone and pressed one of the speeddials. “Of course sir,” he said, handing over the phone.

O’Shea pressed it to his head, then composed himself and looked Hauser in the eye. “I don’t care what it takes, Hauser,” the president said seriously, “You find Alfred, and you have him talk to me. I  _ need  _ to know what we’re dealing with. And how to stop it.”

Hauser saluted. “Yessir.”

* * *

_ Paris, France _ __   
_ May 2027 _ _   
_ __ Earth-127

Farid Bensaid, the Personification of Algeria, or the French Republic now, he supposed, after Phillipe Petain had taken over and the French exiles had come, knelt on the cold stone, other captives beside him underneath the shadow of the Arc de Triomphe in the Paris of this new world. Farid dared to look up, and he sighted his former master, the Commune of France, the man he’d taken to calling Hugo because he couldn’t bear to call him “Francis” anymore, and he saw him talking with the Union of Britain and the newcomer, the other France, the one who dressed in military uniforms and called himself Jacques. To his left, Farid looked again at the guillotine, the black blade gleaming dully. To his right, he saw the row of prisoners, war heroes and Nations from his world, all those who had stood up to the Internationale and lost. Farid hung his head again. Wilhelm and Matt had trusted the war to him while they left in a desperate bid to procure help. All he had to do was hold the line, to hold out. And he’d failed.

The Second Weltkrieg was over. The Reichspakt and the Entente had lost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! It's been quite a while, hasn't it? But this FIC'S NOT DEAD YET! sorry it took so long to finally put out content in the new year, but here it is! I've finally found a way to cohesively tie the Kaiserriech and Redemption stories together, and I'm setting up all the major battlefields for the chapters to come! In the meantime, enjoy a quick interlude with everyone's favorite generic noninflammatory self-insert president, Bob O'Shea! #LetO'SheaRest2021


	28. The Big Eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Know thy ally, for he will be at thine back. Know thy enemy, for he will be there too."  
> -Me, because I couldn't find any good quotes

_ Unity Hill, District of Columbia _ _   
_ _ May 2027 _ _   
_ _ Earth-124 _

Ben paced outside New York’s room, waiting for the word from Delaware on how his brother was doing. Around him, California, Texas, Virginia, Louisiana, Pennsylvania, and Florida all waited as well, all in various stages of worry. Together, the eight of them were the most powerful states in the Union, dubbed “The Big Eight” by their siblings and cousins. Whether it be by economic power like California, military might like Texas, historic importance like Pennsylvania and Virginia, or just recognizability by others like Florida and Louisiana, The Big Eight were almost on par with full-blown Nations, and they had the power and skills to back it up. And yet they were cooped up in Unity Hill, unable to do anything.

Ben stopped pacing for a bit, then inspected each of his siblings and cousins in turn. First, of course, there was California. Roberto boasted about being the Strongest State in the Union, and as much as Ben hated to admit it, there was some truth to his words. He had the largest economy, one of the strongest National Guards, the largest population, and a decently patriotic populace. They weren’t as fiercely loyal as Texans or Bostonians, but Californians still cared deeply for their state and their country, even if most of that care came through as criticism. In terms of battle, Ben was unsure of Roberto’s capabilities; because of the strict gun laws in his state, Cali had an annoying habit of refusing to use firearms, even when in open warfare. However, Ben knew Roberto hadn’t shied away from the battlefield by any means, so he must be doing  _ something  _ right. Exactly what that something was, Ben wasn’t sure.

Ben moved on to study Texas. Noah had the most experience in battle out of all of them, that was abundantly clear. Like Hawaii and Vermont, he had served a brief stint as his own independent country, and he had had to fight Mexico to do it. His skills had been tested time and time again by battles like the Alamo and Anzio. With his tracking and investigative skills taught to him by the famous Texas Rangers, Noah would prove to be an invaluable asset in any battle, and if Ben knew a thing or two about cowboys, he was pretty sure Noah qualified for “Quickest Draw in the West”. And yet Texas was stuck here with the rest of them, unable to do anything as they awaited news from their parents that seemingly would never come.

Ben turned to Virginia. Olivia was one of the oldest out of all of them, but there was some cause for debate on whether it was her or Delaware. No one was really sure, but Uncle Alex seemed to think it was her, so Ben settled on that. Ostensibly, Olivia seemed to be a more quiet and subdued woman, usually dressing in modest gowns and the like, but Ben knew from experience that in times of war, Virginia changed from prudish intellectual to ruthless military commander. Her state had seen the rise of such honored generals as George Washington, Robert E Lee, Stonewall Jackson, and Zachary Taylor. She represented a proud past of what was the closest thing that America had to a military aristocracy, and it showed when she planned out a battle. Ben knew she preferred the planning table to the battlefield itself, but she also wasn’t one to shy away from a fight, that much he had learned when she and him had faced off in Gettysburg. She favored an M1 Garand these days, and after fighting side by side with her in the Battle of the Bulge, Ben knew she knew how to use it. He was glad that Olivia added some concrete leadership to their ragtag bunch, she kept them all from doing anything too spectacularly stupid. 

Ben turned on his heel and began to pace again, thinking about Louisiana. Adelaide was a wild woman if ever there was one, and it showed in her fighting style. She fought with a cutlass and flintlock, weapons that had long since become outdated, but she made them work with a sort of Cajun Pirate vibe she had going on. Her power drew mostly from her unique culture, with the Francophonic Cajun people dominating her state’s image. Although mostly this came through with things like eating alligator and celebrating Mardi Gras, Ben had also seen a sort of wild fervor in her eyes when they had fought the Civil War and the War of 1812. Adelaide Jones was an excellent fighter, though her form could use a little work.

Ben turned again. Then there was Pennsylvania. Sylvia Jones loathed violence. She was more the mother hen of the group, making sure that they didn’t hurt themselves and that tensions never rose too high to have fights break out. She had a sizeable Amish population in her state, so much so that it was a major part of her personality and she adopted their policy of pacifism. When called upon to help complete housework or light construction, Sylvia was your woman, but Ben was hesitant to throw her onto a battlefield. Still, she was home to Philadelphia and Pittsburgh, two of the most pugnacious cities in the country, so Ben thought there must be  _ some  _ of that lying beneath the surface somewhere. He only hoped that when/if it came to the surface, he would be at a safe distance.

Florida was the final man in their little group. He was older than all of them by far, physically and mentally. He numbered about his early twenties in human years, and was the only physical adult out of the States, which infuriated all of them to no end. Florida had begun life as a full Spanish colony, on par with the likes of Mexico and Columbia, and had simply accepted it when he got sold to the US, agreeing to take a subservient position to Alfred and Alexander. Ben knew there were stories from before he was born of how Marcos was once a fearsome pirate, seeking the likes of El Dorado and the Fountain of Youth, but even if those stories  _ were  _ true, Ben doubted any of that skill stayed with Marcos now. Ben had never seen Florida so much as look at a sailing ship, or swing a cutlass like Louisiana. He had done is fair share in wars, to be sure, but Marcos seemed to prefer the dancefloor to the battlefield. He kept claiming to be retired, even though he was still very obviously working for the government, and always dressed in copacabana casual wear, complete with Hawaiian shirt and flip flops. The only reason Marcos was still relevant anymore was because of the rocket launches from Fort Lauderdale, Disney World, and the rise of the Florida Man meme. As much as he doubted Pnnsylvania’s fighting skills, Ben doubted Florida’s even more.

And that was why being down a New York was so frustrating. Ben didn’t usually put stock in power rankings, but he’d easily put Alan at a solid third place. With an economic, cultural, and historic powerhouse like New York City fueling him, the only thing holding Alan back was his insomnia, caffeine addiction, and workaholism. However, it seemed loading all his eggs in one basket had cost Alan dearly; one attack on NYC, a place not even his capital, and he was largely out of commission. He was a glass cannon.

Of course, there were other states that had proved themselves capable fighters. Alaska held a sort of silent, raw power to him. Hawaii had been trained in the old ways of Polynesian warriors. Illinois had run through the streets of Chicago with Al Capone. Michigan was once an economic powerhouse, and he was still an engineering genius. Delaware, of course, was a highly talented doctor, and had saved more than a few lives, including Ben’s own. Kentucky was an excellent equestrian, even if he had a drinking problem. Colorado was a celebrated outdoorsman, with survival skills almost on par with Alaska’s. In a pinch, Ben was sure the States could defend themselves, but if what the news said about their invaders was true, if even their soldiers were having trouble against this new threat… Ben couldn’t be  _ absolutely  _ sure. What if the next target was another city that would take one of the Big Eight out of action, like Philadelphia or Norfolk? God forbid, Boston? What if they attacked Unity Hill itself?

Ben growled frustratedly. He hated being on the sidelines. He wished that Kekistan would hurry up and get a location on Aadil Ibn La’Amad so that he could put his plan into motion. If he could just wake up the Muslim Nation, wherever he lay, and get him to rally against ISIS, it could break the enemy’s leadership. Or, at the very least, stop the crazy terrorist from bringing in more new problems. It was a good plan, if only he could make it  _ happen… _

His phone buzzed. Ben scarcely dared to hope. He stopped pacing immediately and looked down at his phone, then resisted the urge to dance with glee. It was from Kekistan, and it was a single word:  _ Baghdad _ . Of course! How could he be so blind? Of course the Personification of Islam would exile in Baghdad! It was one of the most important Muslim centers in history! 

Ben pocketed his phone and ran out of the room and into the foyer of Unity Hill, hightailing it for the exit. “Hey!” Olivia shouted after him, “Where do you think  _ you’re  _ going young man!?”

Ben barely turned, shouting, “OUT!” over his shoulder before making it out the door and hopping into his car. He took out his phone again, then called the only person in the Middle East he knew who wouldn’t shoot him on sight.

* * *

_ Tel Aviv, Israel _ __   
_ May 2027 _ _   
_ __ Earth-124

Adinah Molowitz was quite enjoying her new life with her son Yosef, in their upscale apartment in Tel Aviv. She could scarcely believe it was happening, after her lifetime of subjugation, to be living in a condition that wasn’t squalor. And in a land of Jewish independence, for the first time in hundreds of years. She could have joined the other Ancients in retirement at Feuerstelle, but the idea of living in her own land for the first time since the reign of King Hoshea, well… it certainly interested her. And so far, she loved it. She loved her son, and even though Israel had its issues, what with the Palestinian Conflict still raging in full swing and all, but even just this tiniest sliver of freedom was enough for her.

She smiled to herself as she sipped a hot cup of tea while her son washed dishes in the other room. She enjoyed the quiet so much, no noise in the room except the ticking of the clock and the running of water. Then she heard his phone ring, and he answered, “ _Shalom_ , Massachusetts. I wasn’t expecting a call. What do you need? Mhm. Uhuh. Yes. Yes, I can do that. Why are you going to be in Jerusalem, though? … … … **_WHAT!?_** ”

Adinah sighed as her beloved silence was interrupted. Well… you couldn’t have everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I know I said I was gonna dive more in depth to the Kaiserreich lore, but my muse seems to just hate me and my plans, so here's a rundown of the important states instead.


	29. Deal With the Devil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Sickness, insanity, and death were the angels that surrounded my cradle and they have followed me throughout my life."  
> -Edvard Munch
> 
> WARNING WARNING WARNING WARNING JUST LIKE, ALL THE WARNINGS  
> Allen Jones and Oliver Kirkland are creepy, nasty motherfuckers, and anyone who's made physically ill by things like gore, extreme violence, and extreme vulgarity, should skip the second part of this chapter. For the story you missed, see notes.

THREE DAYS AGO

_ ISIS Headquarters, Middle East _ _  
_ _ May 2027 _ _  
_ _ Earth-124 _

Muhammad was furious. First, when he had first accepted the gift from Allah and used the Multiverse Machine to bring allies into his world, it had backfired spectacularly in the form of Allen Jones and Oliver Kirkland, an insane pair of infidels if ever there was one. Whatever they were planning, Muhammad didn’t know, as they had attacked his men as soon as they were brought through and escaped from his headquarters. Then, he had pulled through the abomination, the woman who masqueraded as a man, and had gained nothing from her. After that, he had successfully captured Mattieu Williams, a man whom he had learned about from the message that had been left inside the Machine, and had managed to get decent information out of him. Now, as he tried to bring through the shattered remnants of the hated United States, he found himself once more at the center of a room in chaos, his fools of compatriots having let Williams escape with the abomination, as well as four other new threats. 

If there was anything that Muhammad hated more than Western imperialism, it was incompetence. This is why, after Muhammad spotted one of his men hold up his hands in surrender to a lowly infidel, he growled and shot the man himself. “Death before dishonor!  _ Allah akbar! _ ” he cried, and his remaining loyal servants took up the cry, fighting back in earnest, only for the earth around them to suddenly begin to shift and shake. Muhammad lost his footing and fell to the ground, watching as his men and the infidels did the same, stumbling and crying out in alarm.

“Well,” an unfamiliar voice said in English, “I do believe that settles that, eh, Jacques?”

“ _ Oui _ , I believe our Mistress has made her point, William,” a different voice responded, this speaking English as well, but with an accent Muhammad recognized as French, from the Lacroix woman he had brainwashed a few months before. 

Muhammad looked up in a rage, and standing together near the entrance to the Machine’s chamber he saw two men dressed in military uniforms. The one on the left was tall, muscular, and carried himself in a supremely dignified fashion, a haughtiness that Muhammad had seen all too often in Westerners. His uniform was made of fine gray cotton, with pristine gold buttons, white officer’s gloves, and a dozen or so revlets that denoted a high rank. He held a gold-tipped ivory walking cane, with a ruby the size of a walnut acting as a handle. On his left shoulder, a single golden circle shone brightly, likely embroidered with real gold leaf. He reeked of ill-gotten wealth, and Muhammad instantly disliked him, despite his charming smile.

The man on the right was slightly more tolerable. He dressed in navy blue tones, with some sort of white waistcoat beneath. He wore a bicorned hat, an officer’s sword hanging at his left side. It seemed to be an elegant rapier, one that Muhammad thought had no place on the modern battlefield, and had a beard of slight blond stubble that seemed to have grown slightly beyond stubble at some point, but yet wasn’t quite a beard. His uniform was still gaudy, but he didn’t reek of the Bourgeoisie, not like the other man.

“Hello, one and all,” the man in gray said cordially, tilting his cane in a slight bow, “How do you do? I am General William H Jones, Personification of the Confederacy of the Golden Circle. This is my compatriot, Marquis Jacques de Bonnefoy, Personification of the Napoleonic Empire. We have a proposition for y’all.”

Muhammad hated the sound of his voice; it lilted and slid, like a snake slithering through the grass. Behind him, the tall infidel in the white robes stood and took off his hood, revealing a face identical to that of William Jones, who merely smiled at the white-robed man thinly. “What the hell’s going on here?” the white-robed man demanded, “Who  _ are  _ you? And why do you look like me?”

William merely continued to smile. “As I said, I am General William H Jones,” he repeated, “This is Marquis Jacques de Bonnefoy, and we have a proposition for y’all. That is, if you’ll stop fighting each other for just a moment.” William grinned in earnest now, gesturing with his free hand in a pinching gesture.

The white-robed man scowled, but the other infidels looked at each other and back to their new guests, and begrudgingly lowered their weapons. Muhammad got to his feet, dusted himself off, and crossed his arms expectantly; rashness would do him no good in this situation, surrounded by potential enemies. For now, he would bide his time.

“Excellent,” William said, “Now then, the Marquis here and I have been brought here, like you, from parallel worlds, ones where our nations are ascendant. Like you, we have been brought here against our will and now we must make do with what we have.”

“However,” Jacques chimed in, raising his finger to accentuate his point, “Unlike you, we have all the facts. You see, we are currently in the service of a patroness, a being of power and might far greater than our own, and if we are to survive, we must do her wishes. That, and, well; she promised us a shit-ton of power.”

“That is why,” William carried on, waving his cane as he talked, “We have been tasked to come here and talk to you. Y’see, things in the Multiverse are a’changing, things that none of us quite understand, and so we gotta use our best guess as to who’s on the winnin’ side. We are in the midst of the opening skirmishes of what’s gonna be a hell of a war.”

“ _ Ugh _ , is there a rest stop between now and the fucking point?” one of the infidels asked, a short, skinny teenager with a red uniform that bore the letters C・S・A on a black patch. He leaned to one side, his arms crossed in irritation. Muhammad smothered a grin.

“The  _ point _ , Axel Jones,” Jacques said with a clipped tone, “Is that you all have a choice. Your worlds, all of them, are under threat of destruction. If you wish to survive, our Mistress has agreed to leave this world, Earth-124, be, as a reward for those loyal to her. In order to claim it, you can band together right here, right now, and help us depose the Nations that currently inhabit it, or…”

“Or you can burn in Hell with the rest of the Multiverse when the time comes,” William said, all levity in his voice totally gone, “And trust me; the time  _ will _ come.”

Muhammad and the infidels looked at each other. Thinking about it, this was a perfect way to procure some concrete allies, and if what these two men said about a coming storm was true, then, well… Muhammad would appreciate being in the winning corner. After the storm had passed, he would simply repeat the process he was completing now, and eradicate all enemies of the True Caliphate. Yes… this was an alliance he could work with. 

Muhammad stepped forward and shook William’s hand, as well as Jacques’s, and almost all of the infidels did the same. One, however… “Absolutely not,” a boy with long hair said, “I won’t go against my God or my Lord. I won’t lay waste to this world, free of sin. And I’ll  _ never  _ work with Nationalists and Syndicalists like  _ you _ .” He stood a little taller, crossing his arms in defiance, “Or my name isn’t Jeremiah Jones, Personification of the Holy Mormon State of Deseret-!”

Jeremiah was cut off by a gunshot, and the Mormon fell backward as the new hole in his head stopped his thought process. William merely blew the smoke from his gun. “Any other objections?” he asked, then, after no one else spoke up, brought out from his pocket a single bullet, made from a jet black metal. “That bullet was made from Stygian Iron, a metal mined from the banks of the mythological River Styx,” he explained, holding the black bullet up for all of them to see, “It is one of only four known godly metals that can kill Nations dead. No resurrections, no passing on into the Gray, no retirement, no nothing. Just dead. We have enough to stock an army; who’s interested?”

Muhammad grinned wider. Oh yes… this would be a profitable relationship indeed...

* * *

_ Lower Manhattan, New York  _ __  
_ May 2027 _ _  
_ __ Earth-124

Kuro watched and waited as he finished explaining his Mistress’s wishes to Allen, as the American doppelganger’s cooperation would be an important factor. Allen merely hummed thoughtfully as he looked down at the crate of black metal that Kuro had brought as an offering. On the desk that once belonged to the mayor of New York City, Kuro noticed an empty syringe, and recognized the distinct color of the heroin pooling around it.

Allen hummed again, then turned away to sit back down at his desk, and Kuro waited more. “Well?” the Japanese Empire asked, “What is your answer?”

“It’s intriguing, I gotta say,” Allen grinned snidely, putting his feet up on his desk, “But I’m a one-man show. There is only one exception to that, and that is the sweet piece of ass that goes by the name Oliver Kirkland; as long as that psycho keeps sucking my dick and as long as I keep kicking the crap out of this poor excuse for an American Army, I’ve gotta say; I don’t need your little cult, Jap.”

Kuro narrowed his eyes and tightened his grip on his sheathed sword, feeling disgust rise in the back of his throat. “You do realize that that ‘ _ sweet piece of ass _ ’ as you called him is technically your biological father?” he asked the deranged tyrant, and Allen shrugged.

“He gives good head,” he said nonchalantly, “Most of my sexlife is made up of dead people, so-”

“ _ Enough! _ ” Kuro said, feeling that he could take no more of the slew of  _ no _ that came pouring from this filth’s mouth. He drew his sword, the blade glinting black after it had been infused with Stygian Iron, “If you are not an ally, then you are an enemy; I, Honda Kuro, the Empire of the Rising Sun, shall kill you where you sta-!”

Kuro fell to the floor instantly as a butcher knife drove into the back of his skull. “Was he bothering you, dearie?” Oliver asked sweetly, withdrawing the knife and licking off some of the brain matter. Allen flushed at the sight, feeling his pants grow tighter around the crotch. 

“Oh man…” he whispered carnally as Oliver sat on his lap, “Not anymore…”

Oliver smiled, and they kissed, long and passionate. “How’s our guest downstairs?” Allen asked breathlessly as he tugged off Oliver’s sweater vest. 

“As talkative as ever,” Oliver giggled, slipping off Allen’s tie, “He’s started talking to an imaginary friend named ‘Merlin’.”

“Merlin? Oh man, he really is off his rocker,” Allen laughed, hauling Oliver up by his hips and carrying him a few steps as they held each other close, kissing again. “One sec, babe, I gotta make sure of one thing,” Allen said, supporting Oliver with one hand and lifting Kuro’s sword with the other. In one swift motion, he stabbed the Stygian Iron blade downward into the Jap’s heart, making sure he was dead for good. Allen was about to bring Oliver back to the desk when his lover stopped him.

“ _ Wait! _ Let’s do it on the corpse!” Oliver whispered in his ear, and Allen shuddered.

“Oh man, you are so fucked up,” he muttered, laying Oliver down on top of the dead Nation, “I  _ love it _ .”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those that skipped the second part: Honda Kuro, Japan's doppelganger, tries to convince Allen and Oliver to join up with Muhammad, William, Jacques, and the Internationale to take over Earth-124. They kill him instead. It is revealed that Arthur (our Arthur) is being tortured by Oliver in the basement of New York City Hall. Allen and Oliver are in an intense sexual relationship.
> 
> Yikes, of all the chapters to come back from break on, it had to be this one. Ah well, can't be helped. I swear to God, Allen and Oliver write themselves, this is not my fault it's oUT OF MY CONTROL, OKAY? IT'S IN THE MUSES' HANDS NOW.
> 
> Stay tuned for more (hopefully cleaner) chapters next week, and don't forget to read the next chapter of "Redemption" on Friday! (Sorry if I lost anyone at Allen and Oliver, but it doesn't feel right not to include that level of insanity. I really want to drive home that they are NOT human, nor do they possess human emotion; they are extreme dark mirrors, an example of the rampant corruption that can take place if an immortal like the Nations just don't give a fuck anymore. Really hope you guys understand, and once again, BLAME THE MUSE)
> 
> Peace!


	30. Broken Trust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Love comes to those who still hope after disappointment, who still believe after betrayal, and who still love after they’ve been hurt.”   
> – Unknown

_ Munich, Germany _ _   
_ _ May 2027 _ _   
_ _ Earth-124 _

Lutz sighed as Ludwig and Feliciano flanked him as they walked to the airport. He blew a raspberry boredly, looking up to the sky and then around at their surroundings, growing border still. His companions maintained a stony silence, having agreed after the broadcast to simply take Lutz with them to London, where they were planning to meet up with the rest of the Nations that had volunteered to fight the 2Ps. “So…” he said awkwardly, trying to break the silence, and Ludwig barely glanced at him from the corner of his eye. “Where uh… where’s your Prussia?” he asked nonchalantly, and Ludwig’s back straightened immediately while Feliciano’s head snapped to the two of them.

“None of your concern,” Ludwig said coldly.

“No, no, it’s cool, I get it,” Lutz said quickly, trying to backpedal, “I mean, if he’s uh… y’know-” Lutz made a not-so-subtle gesture of dragging his finger across his throat.

Ludwig grimaced. “Gilbert is alive,” he said finally, “That’s all you need to know.”

“Oh, so he wasn’t a Nazi in this world?” Lutz said in surprise, then turned his attention back to the road, still trying to make conversation, “Interesting. My Prussia was a Nazi. He’s dead now.” Ludwig grimaced again, and Feliciano frowned. Lutz winced. “I overshared, didn’t I?” he asked.

“A little bit,  _ si _ ,” Feliciano said apologetically, showing the German a sort of half-smile.

Lutz smiled, “Well, at least one of you has human emotions. What’s wrong, Tall, Dark, and Scary? Cat got your tongue?”

Ludwig scoffed. “I don’t need to make conversation with a prisoner,” he said venomously, “And neither do you, Feliciano.”

“Oh come on, we’re all friends here!” Lutz said amicably, “Why don’t you loosen up a bit, man? You might like it!”

Ludwig shook his head exacerbatedly, “Are you sure you aren’t an alternate version of America instead? You certainly talk enough.”

Lutz grinned and scratched his cheek a little bit, “ _ Well _ , we have had fun together before. He and I grew close after the war, when I got split in half, he started staying over at my place for a few nights, we would get drunk together in Hanover, and well, one thing led to another…”

“ _ Enough _ ,” Ludwig said forcefully, “I do  _ not  _ need the mental image of you and America--  _ having fun _ together.”

Lutz smiled evilly, “Or maybe it’s  _ exactly _ what you want, eh-?” At that moment, a stiletto dagger found its way to Lutz’s throat, pressing uncomfortably against the artery in his neck. Feliciano smiled at him in a sickly-sweet manner, his eyes blood red and murderous.

“Maybe you quit while you’re ahead,  _ si? _ ” he said sweetly, and Lutz nodded quickly as the dagger slowly crept away.

“Got it,” he said nervously, “No propositioning the boyfriend. You got it.”

Feliciano smiled again and put the dagger away, returning to his normal, bubbly self. Lutz sighed with exhaustion, muttering, “You guys are real pieces of work, you know that?” He got no response as the forced march to the airport continued.

* * *

_ Ottawa, Canada _ _   
_ _ May 2027 _ _   
_ _ Earth-124 _

Gilbert barely registered the outside world as he meticulously gathered his weapons, working in the shed he had built in his husband’s backyard. He had seen the broadcast, just like everyone else on the planet; that other Alfred, the declaration of war, the…  _ insanity _ . Gilbert shivered; it was all just a little too familiar to him. He frowned to himself unhappily as he cleaned his zweihander sword,  _ Rapunzel _ , for the hundredth time, making sure the blade was spotless and sharp as a razor. He heard a door open and shut from the house, and spared a glance out the shed’s only window to see Matthew Williams, the Personification of Canada and his loving, dedicated husband, walking out the shed while on the phone.

“Yeah. Yeah, of course,” he was saying into the speaker, “Thanks for calling, Matthias, I’ll tell him. You too. Stay safe.” Matthew hung up, and sighed as he stepped up to the shed’s door, while Gilbert leaned against the threshold, wiping his hands of the cleaning oil with a rag.

“What was that about?” Gilbert asked, flipping the rag onto his shoulder.

Matthew sighed, “That was Denmark. Germany’s putting together a coalition of Nations to help fight the 2Ps, and they were calling to see if I wanted to help. I gladly accepted; I’m leaving for New York soon.”

Gilbert perked up, “ _ Ausgezeichnet! _ I’ll come with you!” He turned back into the shed, reaching for  _ Rapunzel _ , when Matthew stopped him.

“Er, Gil, he, uh…” Canada started awkwardly, “He specifically said that you shouldn’t come.”

Gilbert stopped suddenly, turning stiffly, his jaw clenched tight. “I can still fight, Birdie,” he said firmly.

“I know, Gil, I know that, but…” Matthew sighed unhappily again, a worried whine entering his voice, “You  _ know  _ it’s dangerous for you to be out in the field. You could be hurt, or-- or worse. It’s too dangerous for Defunct Nations to go into battle-”

“ _ I’m not DEFUNCT! _ ” Gilbert roared angrily, and Matthew flinched a little bit in surprise. Gilbert balked, “I- I’m sorry I yelled, Birdie, but I-- I can  _ still fight.  _ I can make this right, please, I know it, just…  _ let me help _ .”

Matthew sighed, casting his eyes to the ground for a long, excruciating moment. “That’s up to Germany,” he said finally, “But… you know that’s not the only reason they don’t want you coming, Gil. They still don’t trust you after what the Book showed us two years ago.”

Gilbert frowned as he rubbed his hands again absentmindedly. He had shattered the Nations’ trust in him two years ago after the truth of what had happened to the German States had been revealed. No one trusted him anymore, except for his wonderful Birdie. But  _ verdammt _ , he would help them, whether they liked it or not!

Gilbert turned back into the shed and pulled  _ Rapunzel _ ’s sheathe onto his back, tying the straps around his chest. He walked back out to face his husband, grim determination gleaming in his red eyes. “Let’s go,” he said firmly. Matthew nodded.

* * *

_ Vienna, Austria _ __   
_ May 2027 _ _   
_ __ Earth-124

Roderich Beilschmidt frowned to himself as he put the finishing touches on a new symphony he had been composing for a year or so now. He had a clear idea of what he wanted it to sound like: a grand and flowing piece, with dozens of different paths colliding into one final crescendo, but the second movement was giving him trouble. It was so disjointed, so disorganized… if only he could find a way to streamline it…

A noise outside his window made him look up from the piano. “Elizabeta?” he called, but he didn’t expect an answer; his wife had left for London ages ago. Roderich frowned; something in him was telling him not to ignore it, whatever little battle instinct he had left these days.

His heart in his throat, Roderich slowly reached into his desk and pulled from it a small, ornate and delicate knife, with a white pearl encrusted into the base.  _ Edelweiss  _ was ceremonial more than anything, but it was sharp enough to hurt someone in a pinch. And it was better than nothing. “Who’s there?” he called out again, rising from his seat at the piano shakily.

“ _ He’s onto us; move, move, move! _ ” Roderich heard a distant cry in the dark, and whirled around quickly to see a tall, foreboding soldier in riot armor, toting a massive black gun. Roderich cried out shrilly and stabbed  _ Edelweiss  _ downward as hard as he could, hitting the neck by chance, and felling the enemy soldier with a garbled gurgling sound. Roderich shook as blood dribbled down the blade and between his fingers, then whirled around wildly to see where the next attacker was. Before he could do anything, shots rang out in the dark, and there was a searing pain at the base of his spine, before he collapsed and fell to the ground, unconscious.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear I'll get back to Paris eventually, but the Muse just hates me and my plans, so here's this. Wanna know where Roderich's going? So do I!


	31. The Crown Unbroken

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You and I have a rendezvous with destiny. We can preserve for our children this, the last, best hope of Man on Earth, or we can sentence them to take the first step into a thousand years of darkness."  
> -Ronald Reagan
> 
> WARNING ONCE MORE FOR ALLEN

_Unknown Location, Middle East_ _  
_ _May 2027_ _  
_ _Earth-124_

Matt groaned as consciousness slowly drifted back to him. He didn’t know where he was. He shifted his weight upward, and something next to him shifted. “Hey, hey, easy, buddy,” a familiar Bostonian accent said somewhere to his left, and Matt opened his eyes to see a short, wiry-haired teen in a forest green uniform, a pinetree insignia on his left shoulder. 

“Mm-Benjy?” Matt mumbled, holding his head as a headache coursed through it. There was a flash of white hair on his left, and Matt felt someone lean against his side, supporting him as he sat up. He was leaned against something cold and hard, and as he became more aware of his surroundings, he realized they were in a cave.

“How are ya, old friend?” New England asked him as Matt’s head slowly stopped spinning.

“Ugh…” he murmured in response, “I feel like I got hit by about seven trucks in a row.”

Someone snorted with laughter to his left, and Matt turned to see the person supporting him was none other than Klaus, the slightly-built Prussian that had been captured alongside him. In a rush, all the memories of the previous two weeks came rushing back to Matt, and he jolted upright, then grimaced as fire coursed through his torso. “Agh! Damn it!” he cried, and he looked down to see his chest was heavily bandaged. “Wh-what happened? Where are we?” he asked the two of them, and a new voice from the back of the cave spoke up.

“You tell us, pal,” Rob Jones muttered, leaning against the cave wall, “Last thing I remember, I was picking off Mormon crusaders on the Strip, the sky explodes, next thing I know, I’m in a dank hole in the ground with you assholes. And, correct me if I’m wrong here, it looks like _you’ve_ been tortured for information.”

Matt grimaced at Rob’s succinct summary, then looked around at the other two people in the cave. Todd and Trevor Jones, the Personifications of Alaska and Colorado, the last major holdouts of the Federal Government under MacArthur. Although the Federals had been driven from the mainland, they had continued the fight in exile, with General Dwight D “Ike” Eisenhower setting up a temporary capital in Anchorage. Matt had tolerated their involvement, and when he had finally been forced to involve himself in the American Civil War, the leftover soldiers of the Federal Army were invaluable in key campaigns like the Upper Michigan Corridor or the Phoenix Offensive. Last he heard, Todd and Trevor were enroute to Central America to secure the Panama Canal. Then again, none of them were where they were supposed to be at the moment.

“Well, my stay with the Islamic State wasn’t exactly pleasant,” he muttered, pulling himself into a more upright position with Klaus’s help, “He wanted to know about our world. We seems obsessed with bringing this world’s Nations to their knees, revitalizing some dream of an ascendant Islamic Caliphate.”

Benjy snorted derisively, “As if the camel-humpers could pull their heads out of their own asses that long.”

Matt shot him a glare. “Never underestimate an enemy, Benjy,” he warned, “The Arabs are a formidable race, countless empires have risen out of their sands. Or maybe you’d like to tell Australasia he lost his leg and his eye to a bunch of ‘camel-humpers’. Or tell Algeria that you think he has his head in his ass.”

Benjy stiffened, then scowled as he was chastised. Trevor snickered quietly behind his back. “I won’t tolerate racism in my ranks, boy,” he warned again, making sure his gaze raked across all of them, “Or else you all might as well join up with the Union State and take part in the horrific goings on down _there_.”

_That_ sent the Americans straight. Rob set his jaw tightly and looked at his feet. Trevor’s snickers died in his throat. Todd only looked sad. Benjy looked angry. They knew that the rise of the Union State had meant life getting harder for Negro Americans, but they’d never known the extent of it until they had uncovered the horrific truth in the liberation of Nashville. Camps, horrific, terrible camps, were being built all across the South, meant for using Negroes as slave labor before eventually exterminating them all en masse, in furnaces and gas chambers. The scale of the crime was yet unknown, but as Entente troops pushed further south through the Lower 48, more and more camps dedicated to the systematic subjugation and murder of Negroes were uncovered. It was also discovered that the Personification of Tennessee, young and kind James Jones, had met that gruesome fate at the hands of his sister Adelaide, after he had gotten cold feet and tried to defect to the Entente. 

The whole situation on his world made Matt sick to his stomach, and he hadn’t even gotten to the atrocities in Europe, Africa, or Asia yet. As he spoke, Internationale and Russian troops advanced on Germany, with such a speed and force that none of them had ever seen before. Any hopes of help from the Japanese Empire in the east had been quashed by the advent of the New Mongolian Empire, that had taken Asia suddenly by storm, headed by one of the doppelgangers that Matt was certain was responsible for the destruction of his world. Another doppelganger, the Sultanate of Egypt, had seized the Suez Canal and Jerusalem International Zones, and had gone on to bring the crumbling Ottoman Empire to its knees, killing the Sick Man of Europe before it had the chance to cure its ailments. In Africa, the German domain of Mittelafrika had collapsed, and thousands of African tribes now vied for supremacy beneath the Sahara. In the Far East, the remnants of German East Asia bound together with the Entente bastion of the Australasian Confederation battled Syndicalist uprisings in Indochina and Melbourne. In South America, Brazil, Mexico, and Chile were mounting a desperate defense against a revitalized Gran Colombia, aided by their Internationale allies. It was overwhelming just how many things were going wrong at the same time; Matt still felt guilty about leaving his friend and cousin, Farid Bensaid, the Personification of Algeria and French West Africa, in charge of the war while he and Wilhelm left secure help. And yet, here he was, surrounded by people who shouldn’t be here, in a world he didn’t know, with no way to get help or get home.

Matt grimaced again as he shifted, then looked at each of them. “I don’t know why you’re all here,” he said, and they all looked at him, “But our world is in danger, and we’re not doing it any favors by waiting around in a cave on another planet. Why you’re here doesn’t matter; what matters is that you’re here. So, my mission is our mission now.”

“And what exactly _was_ your mission, eh?” Rob asked intensely, and five pairs of eyes bored into him.

“We are to contact this world’s Nations,” he said, repeating verbatim the words of King Edward VIII, “And procure from them help for our world.”

The gathered gaggle of Nations and States looked at each other. “Well damn,” Trevor sighed, rubbing his face in defeat, “Why didn’t you just say so?” He didn’t sound exasperated or excited; only defeated.

“Come on,” Matt said, grunting with effort as he stood up, Klaus immediately supporting him. He looked at the Prussian in confusion, but his silent companion merely set his jaw in a determined line, and nodded to him. The message was clear: _I will help you._ Matt smiled gratefully, murmuring, “ _Merci beaucoup_ ,” then turned to the others, “We need to move. We should head east until we reach civilization; from there, we can take a plane back west towards Europe or America.”

“Yep. ‘Cause why not do something that’ll get us all killed at record speeds?” Rob muttered, shouldering his pack, “Let’s go waltzing into the desert, everybody. This’ll end _great_.”

Matt ignored him as he limped out of the cave; he didn’t know if Wilhelm was dead or alive. Einstein’s Machine, their only means of transport between Earths-124 and -1118, was in enemy hands. As far as he knew, the hopes and dreams of all free peoples of his earth depended on him. He was the head of the Entente. He was the last bastion of the British Empire. He was the Crown Unbroken; and he would _not_ let them down.

* * *

_Lower Manhattan, New York_   
_May 2027_   
_Earth-124_

Allen closed his eyes and breathed in and out as he melted into his chair, his world a state of pure bliss. Soldiers had come to clean up the body of Honda Kuro, and Allen had let them, instead snuggling with his boo in the puddle of blood and… other things. When Oliver had finally cleaned himself up and gone back downstairs to deal with their guest, Allen had merely sat in his chair and remembered all the things that had gone _oh so wonderfully right_ in that intense twenty minutes of pleasure. The mental image of Oliver nude and covered in another man’s blood might just keep him warm at night until the end of time…

“Sir?”

Allen grumbled and cursed as he opened his eyes to see one of his soldiers, saluting uncertainly. “What do you want?” he muttered irritably, “I’m busy.”

The soldier gulped, then spoke again, “Apologies, sir. I just wanted to let you know that Operation: Strutting Peacock was a complete success.”

_That_ did put a positive spin on being interrupted. “Is that right? So Roderich Beilschmidt is in our hands?” he asked.

“Yessir,” the soldier responded, then nodded to another two who dragged the unconscious body of the Austrian into the room, throwing him into a heap of purple satin and blood. He fell like a sack of potatoes, and his legs were bent at an awkward angle. “You should know, sir, in the scuffle some of the Stygian Iron bullets we procured from Honda Kuro passed through his lower spine. As near as we could tell while he was unconscious, he’s been paralyzed from the waist down.”

Allen smiled at the Austrian’s limp form, feeling himself grow ready for another round. “Good,” he said nonchalantly, holding up Roderich’s chin to inspect his face. Pretty enough, the glasses were a nice touch. Might look better with a black eye. “Maybe he won’t scream as much then,” Allen said, drifting his hands down Roderich’s shirt, “Move forward with the plan. Commence Operations: Wounded Bear and Blind Dragon, but hold off on Proud Rooster; we should wait and see what moves the Internationale is going to make in Paris first. Instead, go ahead with Rising Sun.”

“Yes sir!” the soldier said, and Allen was left alone with his new playmate. Grinning sadistically, Allen brought Roderich’s lips to his; this was turning out to be a great day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TA DA! IT'S TWO DAYS LATE BUT WHO CARES??
> 
> Hope you all enjoy, keep in mind that I am not responsible for the actions of Allen Jones, and see y'all next week!


End file.
